Apostate
by rhokesh
Summary: Continuation from "Witch". Fenris and Merrill are traveling the country, growing slowly closer and trying to avoid trouble. But the Mage-Templar war is raging, and a Knight Commander is desperate... (Fenrill)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:** This is a direct continuation from my first DA2 fic, "Witch". If you haven't read that yet, I strongly suggest you take a turn around here: s/8529944/1/Witch , because this story will make little sense else.

I want to say Thank You again to all who rode, followed, favorited, and reviewed to "Witch". Even if I forgot to write an answer to your review, or couldn't (as with the guest reviews), know that I soaked your kind words up like a sponge ;D They really kept me going.

And now I'll stop the rambling and go on to:

(And ah yes, there's the** Disclaimer:** Dragon Age 2 and all of its characters are the intellectual property of Bioware. I'm just borrowing them for my own fun ;) )

**Apostate**

"Spiders up ahead."

A groan left her lips. "Mythal, please no... If they have a queen with them, I'll scream."

"Scream all you like, but save it for after I'm down there." Fenris reached up behind his shoulder to loosen the sword in its scabbard, lips twitching into what she had learned to recognize as a smile.

"I'm not stupid."

He said nothing. Very meaningfully so. She snorted and swatted at him with her staff, but he easily side-stepped out of her reach and left her glowering. "You... flat-ear. Go get them, I've got your back."

He looked at her briefly, nodded. "I know." Then he drew his weapon and charged.

They had done this so often in the past that Merrill had stopped counting. When it wasn't spiders, it was bandits, or walking skeletons, or shades. It had taken them only a little adjusting to fighting as a pair, rather than as part of a team of four or more people. She was familiar with Fenris' moves, she knew his strengths and his weaknesses, she knew to keep watching his blind spots, to pick out the archers or other mages, if there were any, and to give the death strike to those he had wounded, lest they attack him from behind with their last strength when he had already turned to another foe.

Her staff whirled, lighting exploding from its sleek wooden form. Down in the clearing, Fenris' sword flashed in a silver arc, like an answering bolt. She summoned vines from the ground to drag a large black-and red spider from a tree, and Fenris finished it with a powerful downcut that nearly cleaved it in two.

And that was it. Merrill started to pull back her magic as Fenris re-sheathed his sword, then slithered down the slope to join him in the now empty spiders' nest. Empty but for the bodies, of course. Fenris was already busy tearing open the cocoon of spider's silk around a longish form, revealing an emaciated, dried-up mummy of what had once been a human within. She shuddered. There was a reason she hated giant spiders...

"Do you think he's here?", she asked, peering around him as he stood and wiped his hands on his trousers.

"Not unlikely. Those spiders have been busy. Look..." He pointed with his chin. She looked in the direction and made a face. "Elgar'nan, will we have to go through all these?"

"You got us into this.", he reminded her. Again.

"I know. But I couldn't leave a fellow elvhen in doubt about what has happened to her brother. Besides, she might pay us..."

"If you don't decline the money again, that is."

"That man was a beggar, Fenris!"

"If it takes threats to get someone to _not_ pay you, I'd say they can spare the money."

"Oh, you... heartless flat-ear!"

He chuckled low. Merrill rolled her eyes. There were some things they likely would never see eye to eye about. Money was one of them. As they made their way back into country inhabited by humans, to hopefully throw the Dalish off their scent, they had passed a few farmsteads lying isolated among the low hills. At the first, it had been two cloaks from the clothesline and a chicken. Fenris had taken them without a second thought. She'd left their worth in silver in the chicken's nest. The second had lost two loaves of bread left to cool on the kitchen windowsill, and acquired a handful of coppers. At the third, boots, since it had gotten really cold by then, in exchange for her last sovereign. And so on.

Merrill knew, technically, that it would have been the smart thing to save their money until they really needed to spend it on something. But she couldn't bring herself to steal. Once was bad enough. Even if the victims were shems.

Fenris rolled his eyes at her over that, but thankfully refrained from saying anything. She'd thought taking up odd jobs, like they had done with Hawke, would be a good idea to bolster their finances a bit, but since the people they usually ended up helping were all poor, and mostly elvhen, it was hard for her to ask for money in exchange for their services. Mostly, she left that part to Fenris, who looked quite intimidating even with his markings hidden as well as could be by the long, hooded cloak and a threadbare shawl, and his hair dyed a sort of mud-color. Her hands had been brown for days afterward from the cooked walnut rinds.

Her hands were currently digging around in a cocoon from which the ripe smell of rotting meat wafted in a great cloud. She gagged. Her breakfast wanted very much to see the light of day again...

Fingers dipped into decaying flesh. Looked like it would be getting its wish.

"I think you found him.", Fenris called to her where she was standing doubled over at the other end of the clearing, having quickly fled there. Not quick enough to save the contents of her stomach, but at least she was out of the worst of the smell now.

"Well that's... something to be thankful for..." She retched again. Creators, she _hated_ spiders.

A hand settled on her back, rubbing soft circles there. She felt instantly better. This was something she still marveled at: Fenris touching her, not by accident, not because it couldn't be helped, but because he wanted to. Fenris allowing himself to be touched- although she tried not to push it, which was harder than it appeared. As the weather had been getting steadily colder, autumn sliding into winter, they had taken to sleeping back to back under their shared blankets for warmth. Sometimes she would be woken abruptly by Fenris shaking her off, to find that she had turned in her sleep and snuck her arms around him. Sometimes she would, on impulse, stretch out a hand toward him and feel him stiffen. There would be days when he seemed almost as far-away and closed off as he used to be in Kirkwall. Then there'd be days when he would hold out a hand to her to help her across some obstacle in their way, sit close enough to her by the fire that their thighs brushed, or- well, do what he was doing right now.

These moods came and went, and she'd had to accept that she could neither predict them, nor find out what caused them. So she simply tried to be grateful for every touch freely given or accepted, though she also had to admit that she was yearning for more. Much more. After that one clumsy kiss, there had not been another, let alone... no, she wouldn't go there. Best not to.

"Are you alright?", he was asking now, handing her his water skin to rinse her mouth. She nodded and smiled a bit lopsidedly after spitting out the water. "I feel better now. Sorry, that was a bit... much. How can you _stand_ that smell?" He did seem to be quite unaffected by it, she noticed with no little envy.

He shrugged. "Fighting undead corpses from close up for years on end will do that. Maybe you should go for close combat a little more.", he suggested with a tiny lift to the corners of his mouth. His eyes had that certain sparkle again. She refused to rise to the bait this time, though.

"No, thank you. Could we... please... leave this place? I'd like to get some distance between myself and those bodies."

"We found what we were looking for. No reason to be staying." And oh, but she was grateful for that...

* * *

Fenris leaned back against the wall of the tiny hovel inhabited by a rather young elf woman and twice as many children as should rightly have fit into it, and watched Merrill struggle through her condolences. They had agreed, on the way back, that, ill-suited though she was to breaking the news of a loved one's death to a person, she at least had the merit of being better than him.

All in all, the woman was taking it well. No thanks to Merrill's bumbling around the issue. Fenris rolled his eyes when she went into details of how they'd found her brother's body. Not something a sister should be forced to hear, even he knew that. He shifted a little and shook his head at the little witch, and, thankfully, she took the hint and petered off into silence. His eyebrows rose just a tad. Now that was unexpected. He was so used to her plowing on, despite any hints she might get towards shutting the Void up; hints that mostly just went by her, in any case.

She _had_ changed a lot since Kirkwall, though most of it had happened in the three or so months since they'd... ah... met again. And not just in her attitude towards magic in general, blood magic in particular, but in... very nearly everything. He remembered the snotty little witch from seven years past only too well, with her genuine Dalish attitude- that is to say, feeling herself to be superior to other elves and humans both, if not considering her own self the only real elf in the entire alienage- her pride and self-assurance (unfounded, as it had later turned out) in her own strength, her condescending pity for the city elves- or himself- and her total obsession with the fool's errand that was restoring her cursed mirror. All that, and her unbelievable naiveté and social awkwardness made her a trial to be around.

Now she was sitting in stolen (well, some of them) clothes in a hut she would not have put a toe in a year ago, holding a city elf's grimy hand in one of her own and cradling an elven toddler close with the other and not even noticing he-she?- was busy wiping his/her runny nose on her sleeve, and, while she kept stumbling over her own words, there was genuine compassion in those she managed to get out. And Fenris was watching, and listening to her, with feelings that came very close to pride. She might fluctuate between the woman, the child, and the child-woman, but the appearances of the latter two, exasperating though they sometimes were, only served to highlight the new strength and calmness she had gained, and he found himself drawn to her more every day.

It could all have been nicely straightforward from there, but Fenris was learning once again that something in him simply did not like straightforward. Not in this matter. Oh, his body certainly would have welcomed such an approach- sleeping close, even with all their clothes in the way, did... things to him. He was becoming intimately acquainted with the way Merrill moved, and turned, and breathed in her sleep, as it was sometimes impossible for him to get any shuteye beside her.

Yet whenever he came close, fear would drive him back again. He would wake in the night to the feel of arms encircling him, and all would drown beneath a flood of panic. An unexpected touch would one day be welcome, the next, have the effect of a whiplash. There was a bottom layer of foul, rotten memories in his mind, bubbling softly like a swamp, and whenever he thought that swamp had been laid to rest, infallibly a new bubble would burst and poison his mind afresh with the remembrance of atrocities committed to him, on him- by him. And he would flinch away from her as if burned.

He gave a frustrated sigh, and realized belatedly that he had drifted off, and that several pairs of eyes were resting on him. Instantly, his entire body went into alarm, but a wary look around revealed his watchers to be the gaggle of elf children in the corner. He relaxed again, unclenching his fists and feeling slightly foolish. The brats, catching him looking, immediately went into a huddle from which urgent whispering originated, broken by the occasional giggle and interrupted by shy looks in his direction.

Fenris re-crossed his arms, eyebrows slowly sliding upwards. What was that about?

He shot a look towards Merrill and the presumed eldest sister- at least, he hoped, for her, that those weren't all her own children- who were still deep in conversation. The baby on Merrill's arm had fallen asleep and she was petting its hair in a way that, for some reason, made his stomach clench in something a lot like guilt.

Then a small cough drew his attention first away, and then downward. The largest, bluest eyes he had ever seen met his in a look that was part curiosity, part defiance, part pants-pissing fear. They belonged to a girl about seven years old- not that he was any judge- who was, apparently, the leader of the pack of brats. She was toying with a lock of her long, unwashed brown hair, putting it in her mouth, chewing on it, and withdrawing it again. And the scrutiny she was putting him under had him feeling oddly uncomfortable.

"Messere...?"

That seemed to be it. There wasn't any more forthcoming, in any case, and after a little while of fidgeting and hair-nibbling on the girls' part, and feeling utterly at sea with this odd situation on his, he finally decided to prompt her to spit it out with a soft "Yes...?"

"Uhm... me an' my sibs, we were wondering... are you really an elf, messere?"

Was he really a... what? His brows hit his hairline for good now. "What else would I be?"

"I... dunno. You look so weird... not like any elf I've ever seen. Those lines, they're pretty." She pointed at his chin, and he cursed softly in his head. Of course he couldn't very well keep his face muffled in his shawl within doors, but a brat prattling on about the elf man with the pretty silver markings on his face all around the neighborhood was one of the last things he needed.

"They're... they're just paint. I'm an elf just like you and your siblings. Question answered?" Maker, please make it so.

The problem with the Maker was, he so rarely heard one's pleas. The girl thought about his answer for a moment, but was not yet satisfied.

"Why'd you paint them on, then?"

"I..." Maker's breath, he was being cross-questioned by a seven-year-old. And he had not a single good answer ready for her. "Be...cause I... like them? Why else?" He must really look confused. The girl giggled, more of the shyness and apprehension disappearing from her face for good.

"I like them, too.", she confessed. "Do you think I could paint my face like that?" Now she looked as eager as a puppy. Fenris found it mildly disconcerting, apart from the tight feeling in his gut he always got when someone took too much interest in his markings.

"I think you'll have to wait until you're a little older." That response pleased her not at all. She put her hands on her hips, looking eerily like another female elf he knew (but clothed, luckily). "Pah. I'm nine, I'll have you know. That's practic'ly grown up!"

"Is it, now?" He was beginning to enjoy this despite himself. The brat's pout had him biting his cheek in an attempt not to smile. Now she really did look a lot like Merrill when she was put out.

"Meany! Bllll..." And she stuck out her tongue at him. His teeth almost drew blood now. He could have gone on teasing the girl for hours, if her presumed sister had not become aware of what she was doing.

"Shanna! Will you stop that! Go out and play and stop pestering serrah!- I apologize, messere, she's just so cheeky..- outside with you, or you'll feel the flat of my hand! Now!- I'm so sorry..."

Shanna fled with one lingering look of disappointment at him, and Fenris felt a soft twinge of the same sentiment. Merrill was reassuring the woman that he didn't mind at all, which was almost true- the girl hadn't asked to be allowed to touch his markings, after all. He would certainly have minded then. But as it was, it hadn't been... all that bad.

The rest of the brats had gone back to huddling, and none of them seemed to want to follow their sister's example, so he was left alone for the short remainder of time they stayed in the tiny house. Then Merrill stood and disentangled herself from the baby's grasp with some difficulty- it had obviously taken a liking to her, and was threatening to start squalling as soon as the witch handed it back over to its caretaker. A little shushing and cooing prevented that, and he marveled at Merrill's patience with the infant, or that she even knew what to do.

Baby on her arm, the elf woman then dug around in her purse and handed them what amounted to maybe two silvers in copper coins.

"I do hope this is enough. I'm sorry I can't give you more for all the trouble you had, but... know that I appreciate it. Very much. It is so good to... finally know." There was a hitch to her voice.

Merrill was half looking like she wanted to decline the money, so Fenris stepped forward and accepted it before she could open her mouth. "It is sufficient."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Merrill wince, and added, "Thank you.", inclining his head. He made for the door while Merrill added her own more gentle thanks, and when he stepped out into the cold air, she wasn't far behind him.

He had almost reached the end of the street when he noticed that she was not following him any more, and, turning around, found her standing in the middle of the narrow, dirty lane, looking forlornly up the row of ramshackle buildings. As he was watching, however, she turned and came after him, brushing against him in her way past, and he did not draw his hand back when hers touched it, nor when her fingers slid along his palm, and tangled with his own.

Perched on top of a rotting barrel, arms slung around her skinny legs, a small elf girl with the bluest imaginable eyes watched them go. She sighed softly, snuggling her cheek against a pair of knees covered in a dirty skirt. Then those eyes turned towards the sky, its endless depths.

In a dirty little village, on a cold winter day, a girl dreamed of freedom, and a strong hand to hold her own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's notes:** Rating going all the way up with this chapter for a reason. Ye've been warned.

**Apostate**

A few hours later saw them on their way away from the tiny village, on Merrill's part, with a heavy heart. They were leaving a sister bereft of her brother, a family without their bread winner, alone in an unsympathetic world. She wished she could have done more for them, but there was nothing a pair of fugitives could do. It chafed at her to be so powerless.

At the first opportunity, they left the road, retrieved Merrill's staff from where she had hidden it, and set off across country. Without it, they would have just been a pair of wandering elves, even if Fenris' sword might have drawn looks. Traveling in cold weather had the distinct advantage that no one looked twice at a person wearing a long, hooded cloak. With a staff, however, things looked entirely different. They had already narrowly avoided parties of traveling Templars twice; neither of them wanted a repetition.

As they picked their way through the semi-wilderness, trying to avoid farms and villages and humans altogether, Merrill kept a wary eye on the sky. It was overcast but oddly bright, and the wind smelled fresh and cold. A snow sky. She mentioned this to Fenris, and he hummed thoughtfully and pushed on faster. True enough, the first few flakes trundled down before the hour was past, and before long, a steady fall had set in, dusting the earth with a light coating of white. Merrill tipped her head back and smiled as the flakes fell onto her face and tickled her as they melted. The world had gone silent. She could almost believe that they were the only beings moving on it.

The thought was too tempting not to be indulged in. A world without Templars, without shems, without cruel people who would enslave and torture others just because they could. A world where they weren't hunted, free to go where they would.

But also a world where they would never have met. With a sigh, she buried the brief fancy again, glancing toward Fenris' hooded form. Snow was gathering on his shoulders, the hilt of his sword poking from the folds of the cloak, and his hood. His breath was visible as puffs of white mist in the cold air. He'd turned his head as he heard her sigh and their eyes met, his brow slightly lifted. She gave him a smile- everything alright.

A snowflake chose that moment to land on his nose, causing him to wrinkle it and shake his head to dislodge the offender, and Merrill couldn't but laugh softly at the grimace. Scratching his nose, he peered at her over his fingers, and- were her eyes playing tricks on her, or did his cheeks just redden? No, it must have been her imagination. But she had never wanted to kiss him so badly as she did in that moment.

The snow fell. They walked, their boots leaving first dark spots in the gathering whiteness, then footprints in the thin layer of snow, then trails to show where they'd gone. And the fall showed no signs of letting up. Merrill was mentally preparing herself for spending the night in a hollow in the snow, letting themselves be buried under it like wild animals, when a dark shape suddenly loomed before them on top of a low rise. The falling snow had hidden its contours until they were within a few hundred meters of it, and even now, they couldn't see it clearly.

Fenris stood with eyebrows drawn tight together, shielding his eyes with one hand against the persistent snowfall. She stepped up beside him.

"Another farmhouse?"

"It looks like it. But then, no one is home; I don't see any lights on, and there is nothing moving up there that I can see." He spoke in a low voice. In the silence around them, anything louder than a whisper would have carried almost as well as voices over still water.

"Should we go up and look?" Merrill looked aside at Fenris, who seemed torn. It was still daylight, and therefore even riskier than at night to approach a human settlement. But he did nod, in the end. So they crept carefully closer, prepared to break it and run at a moment's notice. However, as the house came into clearer view, it became slowly apparent that such care was not needed, as it was abandoned. Burned-out houses usually are.

"Great Mother.", Merrill breathed, taking in the devastation in front of her. What had once been a home was now a blackened shell, collapsed roof beams sticking out every which way and slowly accumulating layers of white that only served to enhance, not yet to blanket, the ravages of the fire. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air. This fire couldn't have happened more than a week ago. Behind the house and a little to the side of it, the barn had escaped the fire; it was built at enough of a distance that a fire from one of the buildings wouldn't easily spread to the other. This had helped the occupants of the farm but little, though.

Fenris walked away without a word. She could see him cross over to the barn, cautiously push open the door, and peer inside. A moment later, he stepped inside and disappeared, but was soon back again and came to rejoin her.

"The barn is empty. They have left, and taken everything. Even the hay.", he told her. Only shems, she reminded herself, but she was still glad.

"So not all of them died. That's... that's good." Fenris was regarding her oddly, but then added the only thing that could have made her more relieved right now.

"I don't think anyone died. Would they have taken a body all the way to the village with them? I doubt it. And I have seen no grave."

"Oh, thank the Creators!" Again, that odd look. Fenris shrugged. "It would seem they were lucky after all, whoever they are. And we are, too, because we will have a roof over our heads tonight."

She hadn't even thought about that yet. Now she did, however, it was a strongly appealing thought. "You said they took the hay?"

"Maybe not all of it. I didn't look in the loft." He shrugged again slightly. Merrill was already off on a tangent. Soft, fragrant hay to sleep in... after weeks on the cold, and oftentimes damp, ground, it seemed like a dream come true.

She started past Fenris, calling out "Race you!", over her shoulder.

He didn't, of course. When she reached the barn door and turned to look around, puffing lightly from her run, she found him trudging up through the snow with a mildly bemused expression.

"You're no fun.", she told him once he got within earshot. "Elves should frolic once in a while, you know."

"I'll leave the frolicking to you, if you don't mind." He pushed back his hood, and her snowball hit him square on the nose. Sputtering, he wiped his face, and so the next one went deflected, but she already had another in her hand and was waiting with it poised to throw as soon as she saw an opening. And got it when he raised his head to start saying, "Witch, what the-"

She giggled giddily at his gasp when part of the cold white load slid down his collar. Next snowball in hand, ducking to avoid whatever revenge he would see fit to dish out, she backed away slowly under his green glare. "If you don't want to race me, at least let's have a snowball fight. It's the first snow, after all."

"And what purpose would that serve?" Glowering, he crossed his arms over his chest. That was a mistake. Merrill had good aim.

"It's fun. Come on!"

"Fun?" He was digging more snow out of his collar and shaking his hair clear of it, although that didn't really change much, as it was already drenched.

"You don't know what fun is?" That _would _figure, though she really couldn't imagine...

"I do!", Fenris snapped, "I just don't happen to see what's fun about this!"

"Your expression.", she told him earnestly, and threw another snowball. It exploded against his chest, spraying him with cold moisture. His face grew thunderous. Now she was in for it.

He stepped forward, and she fled, laughing breathlessly. Fenris, on the other hand, was cursing under his breath as he very emphatically did _not_ chase after her. But this being Fenris, his slow stalking progress was a lot more threatening to watch, anyway. Merrill retreated around the barn, a snowball at the ready to pelt him with it once he rounded the corner, then fled again, and again. Leaning against the wall, panting softly, she watched the spot he would be appearing in intently. Any moment now...

A moment later, a hand grabbed her at the back of her neck. She nearly jumped out of her skin, dropping her snowball, and twisting aside to escape, but his grip was like a vice, and when his arm went around her front and pinned her own arms to her sides, she knew that the game was over.

"Got you..." The whisper sent a shiver down her spine and a shower of sparks down her belly. And then he forced her down on her knees and methodically went about rubbing as much snow into her face and hair as he could reach. Merrill "Eeep"-ed when it slid down her shirt, twisted and wriggled in his grip to no avail and tried to kick him, and finally resorted to pleading. "Stop... stop! Fenris- umph- I give up! Let me go, I give up!"

And, mercifully, the rubbing stopped, though he did not let her go yet. Her heart pounded, and her whole body was shivering from the damp coldness seeping and trickling beneath her clothes. Her hair was dripping- into her collar, of course- and her face burned from the cold, and from Fenris' closeness in what, for lack of a better word, could be called embrace.

Something brushed her neck. It took her a moment to realize that it was a pair of lips.

There went the sparks again...

And it wasn't even an accident. If it was, he wouldn't have repeated it.

There was nothing she could do, as kiss after tentative kiss was placed on her neck, as warm breath brushed her cold and wet skin. Her body had just gone limp on her, the heat pooling low in her belly sapping all her strength away. The fact that one of his hands was resting right there, a comfortable weight, a presence felt to the core of her being, didn't help matters. And now her head was slowly tipping back of its own accord, and his lips, denied access to her neck, transferred their attentions to her throat, and she gasped, and writhed as lightning crackled trough her body and set it on fire, and suddenly she could move again. And did so.

It was slightly better than their first kiss. There was still a fair amount of bumping, and mashing, or missing, but on the whole they were getting the hang of it, and soon enough, none of them minded, anyway.

By the time they became aware that they were still kneeling in the snow, drenched and shivering from cold, Merrill knew that there was no going back now. And she was ready. Oh, was she ever ready.

Reluctant to leave the bit of warmth Fenris gave her, and more so to interrupt what they were doing even for one minute, she nevertheless pushed to her feet and drew him up along with her. She found her pack on the way around the barn and picked it up, and his inside, and took both of them with her when she climbed the ladder to the hayloft. There was, indeed, a mound of the fodder left to bed down in. She spread their blankets and cloaks on it and stripped out of her sodden clothing, her teeth chattering, and dived beneath the blanket, soon joined there by Fenris.

Blocks of ice that they were, getting warm drove all other thought from their minds for a while. But life returned to their bodies soon, and warmth soon after, when hands dared to go exploring, when lips rained down kisses on flushed skin, when Merrill's fingers traced the lyrium lines over Fenris' heart and he let his eyes fall half-closed and trusted her not to hurt him, when his tongue traced the faint line of a scar on her wrist. She moaned into his mouth when his knee pushed between her thighs, then he turned them around, and before she could do so much as gasp, she was looking down on him, all bronze skin and silver lines and green, green eyes. Her stomach gave a little flutter. He wanted... really?

There was a flicker of uncertainty in those beautiful eyes, quickly squashed, and his hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. She kissed his palm, and braced herself for the pain she knew was to come.

Pain had never been so delicious. Fenris arched up to meet her, moaning low, hands going to her hips to steady her, and it shot through her, intense and _welcome_. She felt a shudder run through her, followed close by another. All coherent thought had fled, overwhelmed by the flood of sheer sensation, and for a time, all she could do was try to catch her breath while her body adjusted to this intrusion.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her, tense, alarmed, and looking so very guilty.

"I hurt you." It was not a question. She reached out a hand to smooth the lines of guilt and fear away. But she wouldn't deny it; he deserved better than that, better than pleasing lies.

"First time, Fenris. It would have hurt no matter what you did. But I'd rather be hurt by you than caressed by anyone else. Please, believe that." Her hand threaded softly through his hair, and she bent forward to kiss him again, to kiss away that last bit of doubt.

She ended up giving herself a jolt that went all the way to her toes in the bargain. _Creators... _If she'd known it would be like this...

Fenris was shuddering beneath her. Their hands met, fingers tangling, holding on for dear life.

Instinct carried them all the rest of the way. And even as Merrill arched up with a cry of Fenris' name, she could feel him buck under her, a primal growl like one of his namesakes' answering her, and just for a moment, she died.

She came back to lying sprawled on top of him, pleasantly warm, a little sore and comfortably tired. His hands were caressing her back. They let her go reluctantly when she slid off of him to lie beside him, and instantly came back after she'd settled down on their fragrant bedding.

Merrill fell asleep with Fenris' hand stroking through her hair, again and again.

* * *

In the half-light of early dawn, an elf is lying awake, watching another elf sleep.

Merrill's knees were pressing into his thighs, and there was a broken branch somewhere among the hay digging into his ribs, but Fenris was far too comfortable to move. He couldn't remember ever being like this, naked and vulnerable, and lying close enough to touch with another person, and all of it of his own free will. The little witch lay half curled into him- hence why her knees were where they were- and she looked so peaceful, so content, so happy.

To think that _he_ should be the cause of that...

He still wasn't clear on what had happened yesterday. He certainly hadn't planned on it when he'd baptized her with snow. In that moment, all that had been on his mind had been revenge, then next thing he knew was, he was kissing her neck, and she was melting into his arms like the snow they were kneeling in. He could have put a stop to it after they'd fled into the relative warmth of the barn, but he hadn't. He could have pulled away and gone back to scintillating between drifting tentatively closer, and becoming scared of his own courage to pull as far back as he could bring himself to. But he hadn't. And now...

Merrill shifted in her sleep, stretching lightly with a sigh that tickled his collarbone. Then she curled up again, even closer, her head snuggling in beneath his chin, and without thinking, he put his arm around her and drew her closer. He couldn't seem to help himself. His body did things of its own accord that his mind had no previous experience with, that, to his knowledge, he had never done with any living person. Small touches just for the sake of touching, like this embracing her. Was that his buried memory telling him what to do, or was it a kind of instinct everyone had? He had no way to know.

He _knew_ that it felt good. Not that he'd missed it before; it's impossible to miss something you don't know. But after yesterday he knew he wouldn't want to miss all of this again, and there was the hitch, right there. Before, pleasure had been something to be taken from him. Only in small ways had he ever dared take it for himself, had only ever allowed himself to enjoy things that he would not mourn too much should they be taken from him again. Or tried to tell himself so. True, in the beginning, it had worked fine. A taste of wine, a spot by the fire, the luxury of doing nothing at all (which got seriously boring after a while, but boredom was another luxury to him). Later on, it was letting himself feel safe once in a while, and that was dangerous. Enjoying the companionship of Hawke and her party, the feeling of finally belonging somewhere. Having someone to watch your back. Even more dangerous.

But this was most dangerous of all. Pleasure that was not taken, but was freely given and received. The warmth rising deep in his core that had nothing to do with being physically warm, just from knowing she was there. The wish to have her there in his arms forever, the... _need_ to keep her safe, and coupled with it, the dread of something happening to her. It was madness. He was leaving himself wide open, just as if he had never learned anything at all.

A slave must not love.

_I'm not a slave!_ He growled defiance at the thought, the words coming to him far easier than the conviction that this was, indeed, true. Deep down, so deep no word or thought could reach, rooted so fast it was impossible to uproot, the bit of him that would forever be the magister's pet cowered in horrified fear.

He must not displease master, and he would displease him by loving anyone but master.

The growl was real and audible this time. Pushing up and away, startling Merrill out of her sleep and only briefly registering the alarm in her wide green eyes, he fled from the blankets, away from the closeness and warmth into the cold air of a winter morning. It assaulted his skin like freezing fingers. The freezing cold fingers of the man he had once called master, weaving into his hair, tugging on it to make him tilt his head up, daring him to meet his gaze. He could smell his fishy breath on his face even over the distance of a decade. The swamp was churning again...

"_My little wolf." Danarius is cooing, his lips smiling, but there are no crinkles at the corners of his stony grey eyes. Fenris ought not to know this. He is not allowed to look master in the eye, and master delights in testing him in this matter. It is a weakness in him, this not always being able to control where his eyes go, and master points it out to him and punishes him for it so he will learn to overcome this weakness. He also must not wrinkle his nose when master's foul breath brushes over his face- foul? No, no, of course not, nothing associated with master is ever foul, not even unpleasant, or... _

_He kills the thought before it can show up on his face and make master disappointed in him. He does not wish to disappoint master, who is always so kind, and so sad when he has to punish him for his own good. He will not make master sad. _

"_Do you love me?", master continues to speak, and Fenris is happy to nod, even though it hurts when his hair, still firmly gripped in master's finger, is pulled out by the roots. It is only hair, and what is a little pain if he can make master happy?_

"_Yes, master.", he whispers, and he does- he __**does**__, he will not disappoint. _

"_Show me."_

There was a hand on his shoulder. It was small, and warm, and firm, so unlike the long-fingered, loose-boned, clammy hands from memory, and it shattered the waking dream like a hammer blow. But nothing could shake the feeling it left behind, a snaking sickness in his stomach. He felt dirty, used, and above all, disgusted with himself.

"Fenris?" Merrill's voice filtered through to him, fighting hard for steadiness. He shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs of memory, with little success. He'd wanted to say any number of things, that he was alright, that he was sorry for scaring her, but what he ended up saying was, "He'll never leave me alone."

Merrill shook her head, starting to say something, but he rode right over her. "I thought I'd come so far, made so much of myself, but it's all a sham. I'm not my own man and will never be, Maker, I'm not even a man, just this pitiful thing Danarius made of me, his... _pet!_" He closed his mouth with a snap of teeth, bitterness welling up and choking him. What a thrice-cursed fool he was, fancying himself free. Free to love.

"What... what are you talking about?!" Merrill's fist smacked his chest hard enough to sting. He stared at her, all narrow, furious green eyes and flushed cheeks, her lips blue from the cold, and wanted nothing more than to kiss them, to carry her back to their blankets and warm her with his body. And he almost did, too, but the memory of flabby old men's fingers on his neck stopped him.

"You're only a pet if you allow yourself to be one! Danarius is dead, I saw you kill him if you'll remember. It's over, Fenris. You're free. And you're also very much a man... i-if I may say so. I mean, it was..." She stammered, flushed even more, and fell silent, looking at her hands that were now holding the blanket hastily slung around her body in place. Fenris was suddenly very aware of that body, the light curves hidden under the scratchy wool, the swell of one small breast just showing, soft black hair caressing her neck, her ivory skin that was so smooth and smelled like a forest on a rainy day. Maker, how he wanted her. To hold her, claim her, keep her safe, to abandon himself to that wonderful... dangerous... feeling. He wanted it like he never wanted anything in his life before.

He made a last, desperate bound for safety.

"You give me too much credit." A lifetime of keeping his emotions under control served him well now, his voice sounded almost steady. "Do you think I fought and rebelled against Danarius' leash? He would have simply found himself another slave to carry these markings if I had. Oh, no. I made myself his pet, you've got the right of that. I sat and grovelled at his feet like a dog, I would have done anything to make him notice me, a kick from him was bliss for me. He may have made me his pet, but I let him. I may be free, but that dog is still there, panting for a leash."

His voice had dropped low, a growl filled with self-hate and disgust. His gaze fixed on Merrill's face as if he could etch the words into her brain. There was no need, though.

She had suddenly gone very silent. Even paler than usual, her eyes were two dark green pools of pain, pleading with him to deny what he himself could hardly believe he had just said. But he couldn't. Every last bit of it had been the truth, and part of him reveled in the perverse pleasure of having said it all out loud, having laid himself bare to the last disgusting fibre, even as another part waited with baited breath for her reaction, trembling for what she would do.

Her eyes flicked away.

He drew in a deep breath, willing the pain away. So it was done.

Suddenly, the need to get away was overwhelming. Like a man sleepwalking, he turned and went in search for his scattered clothing. It was still damp, and clammy cold, but this was good as it helped him keep a grip on reality. Memories were starting to pour in again, bright, sharp-etched and painful, but if he let them overwhelm him now, he would end up on the floor in a sobbing heap.

He shivered as he slipped his shirt back on, his eyes on the floor so he would not meet Merrill's, so he would not see what she was doing. Snatching up his sword by pure reflex, but leaving his cloak behind, he climbed down the ladder in such a hurry he nearly slipped and fell, and exited the barn at a near run.

He was halfway down the hill when he realized the snow had stopped falling, although on the ground it was a lot deeper than it had been yesterday, covering his and Merrill's tracks. The farm house was covered with white, but the barn was well visible. A tug inside his chest nearly made him turn and walk back, but he resisted it. What would he say to her? What _could_ he say? "I am sorry I did not tell you the truth about myself before I took your virginity?" Yes, that would work well, he supposed.

She had not tried to hold him back, had not said a word as he scrambled for his clothes and fled out into the snow. This could only mean she did not want him to stay. And who could blame her, after what he had just done to her?

_Tainted. _

The word was a sharp hiss inside his head, making him flinch. He walked faster, as if trying to outrun the thought, but it dogged him like a faithful friend. A year ago, he would have considered it impossible to taint a blood mage further, but she was no blood mage anymore, whereas he carried a taint with him as sure as Darkspawn carried the Blight. The swamp was not just in his head, it was a poison in his blood and his very bones, as much a part of his body as the lyrium that gave him his powers. It was not something anyone should wish to dirty the person they loved with.

And he just had.

He finally stopped in the sanctuary of a cluster of trees, out of sight from the top of the hill, out of breath from this headlong tramp through thigh-high fresh snow. The rush of memory would no longer be denied. Pressing his palms to his eyes, he tried to block them out, but he might as well try to dam a river in flood with a few sticks and a handful of mud. It pulled him under.

There were the icy fingers once again, stroking up and down his spine delicately, his master's voice whispering endearments into his ear that he tried so hard to be grateful for. There was Hadriana, lounging back on her bed with her legs spread wide for him to see what was between them, and which could no more entice him than her body, bony and hard like an underfed horse. There were the girls Danarius would gift him with, a long succession of them, some rebellious, some broken, some few eager, but all elven, their pointy ears the only feature they had in common; yet in his memory, they swam together into one, one body he had no wish to touch. Of course he tried; his master was watching, and there was danger in not doing what master wanted, but for all his efforts most of the girls were taken away to be punished for being unable to entice him, and he would listen to the screams while Danarius saw to his own punishment.

The only thing that was worse than these times were the ones where he had been made to drink some aphrodisiac beforehand. Mechanical moves over lifeless bodies, like fucking a corpse, and then to bear Danarius' reward.

He knew what this was all about. He was the prize slave, the special one, and thus worth a fortune in stud fee. His only consolation was that Danarius would never have gotten the money, because to his knowledge, he had never fathered a child. Not after the brands.

And in the midst of all this, suddenly, likes flashes of light, would come the remembrance of last night. Merrill's soft skin warming under his touch, her lips opening for him. The small sighs and whimpers escaping her throat, all the sweeter because she seemed fully unaware of them. Her body welcoming him, wanting him, even though it brought her pain; stuttering, unsure movements becoming fluid and secure, and not once did it feel unnatural, forced, unwanted.

It was everything his former couplings had never been, and now, in his treacherous mind, it was becoming tangled up with them. It was Hadriana on top of him, bending forward to kiss him softly. It was Merrill lying limp, with her gaze far away, waiting passionlessly until he had finished his mechanical rutting, Merrill's voice that screamed her agony through the echoing, unfeeling marble halls of Danarius' mansion. It was Danarius' hand stroking through his hair, but it was warm and firm, and his smell was the smell of summer rain on young leaves.

_No!_ His mind screamed, and "No...", he moaned, on his knees in the snow, once again, body rocking itself softly backward and forward. Danarius had taken everything, and now he was destroying this, too. He could not even keep one fond memory, bittersweet though it might be.

"No!" His palms broke the surface of the snow before him, hitting the ground hard enough to jar. He bared his teeth at the pristine whiteness, snarling at nothing. "You won't get this! I will not let you! Do you hear me, Danarius? I will not!"

The snow afforded him no answer, but he did not need one. There was another memory, rising unbidden, but not unwelcome: A firelit cave, a slip of a girl in a wisp of white, sitting cross-legged, telling a story to the world at large. This was how he wanted to remember her, even if he left now and never came back, and he would not allow anything to taint that. He would not.

He drew his hands back from the snow that was biting at them with icy teeth and staggered stiffly to his feet. Just how long had he sat there? Judging by the numbness of his limbs, it must have been hours. Parts of him, foremost of them his ears, felt ready to fall off. If they felt at all. The rest was sweaty and shivering, as if fevered, which was not at all unlikely. His mind was swirling and his head along with it, and when he'd finally regained an upright position, he nearly tipped over again and only saved himself by holding on to a tree, cursing himself for his weakness.

But all of that became secondary when he heard the scream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes:** Um. Don't have any...

**Apostate**

It is impossible to run fast in high snow, even more so when you're trying to run uphill. Fenris was being forcibly reminded of this fact when, despite his best efforts, despite the urgency burning in his blood, he could no more progress past a fast walk than he could fly. His breath was coming in harsh bursts, the sword on his back a dead weight slowing him down, and he cursed it for what was at least the tenth time when he slipped on the snowy slope and barely managed to avoid sliding back down to its foot, dragged along by his weapon.

Had he not been so sure he would need it at the top, he would have left it behind. But there was still that scream echoing thought his head, setting all his senses on alarm and causing his markings to burn with dimmed, icy fire.

The scream had not been in Merrill's voice. It had come from a male throat. The Dalish had found them after all, it would seem. They had not been careful enough, thinking that returning into human territory would throw them off their scent, but then not all Dalish had been born to the clans; they must have former city elves who knew how to move among humans, and more importantly, how to find someone trying to hide among them. And so they had...

After that one scream, there had been silence, but this fact did little to calm his anxiety. It only meant that there was no fight going on on top of the hill, but gave him no clue as to what he would find when he reached it, and his imagination was running amok with the possibilities, one more harrowing than the other.

He should never have left her, damn it.

After what felt like an eternity- no, two eternities, and then some- he finally reached the summit, out of breath and drenched in sweat as if he'd covered more than thrice the distance at a dead run. The snow covered outlines of the former farm house loomed before him, cutting him off from any sight of the barn, but also providing cover. Trying to get his breath, he gulped down large breaths of air and reached for his sword, weighing it in his hand. Then, when he was sufficiently recovered so he felt able to fight, he edged around the house and tried to get an impression on what was waiting for him.

No Dalish, that much was plain from the moment he caught sight of the horses. Some few of the animals were clustering around a tall human in dark, nondescript clothing, patiently waiting for their riders. Fenris' eyes narrowed at the sight of them. What kind of person could afford horses- and not mere draft animals either, if he was any judge, but fine, long-legged and graceful beasts? That ruled out a band of robbers, or a citizens' militia from any of the closer towns. He could only think of two other possibilities, and either tied his guts in a knot. He couldn't afford to wait any longer.

A quick count of the horses revealed their number to be seven. So from the scream he'd heard, there were now six opponents left, in all probability. Not an impossibly large number to face if he and Merrill worked together; but that sentence begged a question.

There was another human posted beside the barn door, and this one had a bow. Fenris cursed under his breath. It had taken him weeks to recover from the arrow wound, even with the healing worked on him by the Dalish. His strength had taken a long time to return. He had no wish to repeat the experience.

So that only left the roundabout way. He turned, and headed off in the other direction, around and then away from the building until he was certain he wouldn't be seen, then carefully backtracked towards the barn.

He reached its back wall and started creeping along it when he heard the sounds from inside. There were voices, although he could not catch the words that were said. Then, with no warning whatsoever, came the sound of something hard meeting flesh, and an anguished cry from Merrill. His teeth clenched so hard it hurt, and he started moving faster, almost breaking into a run.

Then he rounded the corner and was on top of the archer before he had time to do so much as notch his arrow. The man's end was quick and bloody, and then Fenris was inside, flickering light from his brands illuminating the barn like moonlight and revealing a tableau of several armed men standing around a small, hunched-up figure on the ground, and, near the entrance, a body on the floor. It was still sizzling softly, the sound a sickening counterpart to the astonished silence within. Fenris knew the signs: This one had fallen to Merrill's lightning.

One of the men had Merrill's staff in his hands; another stood over her with his sword drawn. He looked up, along with his peers, and Fenris froze.

Later on he would come to realize that he had doomed them both with this brief moment of hesitation. The man had been about to strike a killing blow, and if Fenris had pressed his attack, he would have had to let Merrill go to defend himself. During this one second, however, a realization was reached and a decision formed, and by the time swords were being drawn around him, the first man's blade was kissing the skin of Merrill's throat in an ever so soft, promising touch. His eyes were fixed on the elven warrior, unwavering, sure of what he had seen, sure of what was going to happen.

Fenris faltered. His desperate rush petered out into a few insecure steps, his sword sank to meet the ground, the lyrium-light died with the abruptness of a blown-out candle. Around him, drawn swords were lowered.

"Serah Fenris." The captain's voice was calm. "Knight Commander Cullen wants words with you."

* * *

"So you were not sent specifically to find me?"

"As a matter of fact, no, we were not, although the Knight Commander told us to look out for you. He has, shall we say, taken it into his head that your presence in the Circle, you being seen to help the Templar cause, would be of great benefit to us." The Captain, who Fenris now knew as Marten, eyed him up and down appraisingly, while not bothering to hide that he was doing so.

_Cullen does, but you don't. _It was quite obvious, from Marten's demeanor, that he had his doubts about exactly how much the Templars would profit from this, but he was not a man who would disobey an order, even if he considered the cause behind said order to be a bee in the bonnet of his Commander. Meredith would have liked him.

And his men stood firmly behind him, from what Fenris had been able to observe. Even if not, after two of their comrades had been killed, one by Merrill's magic, the other by Fenris' own sword, it was reasonable to assume that they considered this to be personal now. There was no help to be expected from this quarter, either.

He refrained from glancing behind him. He knew only too well what he would see: Merrill, surrounded by four mounted, armored men, her hood drawn up against the cold wind and persistently falling snow, slumping in the saddle of the horse she had been hoisted onto. Her hands were bound in front and tied to the pommel of the saddle, her feet to the stirrups, and her staff was kept safely out of reach.

There was also a Templar riding right behind her with a little crossbow cocked.

From time to time, she would succumb to a fit of coughing that grated along Fenris' spine and set his teeth to clenching. None of the Templars seemed bothered about this, but for him it was almost more than he could bear to ride alongside Marten on his own horse, knowing she was sick and getting sicker, and unable to do anything at all about it. Ripping the horse around, snatching hers by the reins and galopping away into the storm would not work; he was barely able to keep in the saddle. Fenris had never learned how to ride. It had not been necessary; Danarius preferred to go everywhere by coach, and even after his escape, there had never been a chance, or the necessity; until now.

So, after two days of endless riding, he was saddle sore in no small way, frozen through, worried sick about Merrill, anxious about what would await them at their destination, and furious at himself for allowing this to happen. It all coalesced into a hard, hot ball of rage in his stomach and kept his markings forever on the verge of lighting up, which had the side effect that they hurt him much worse than usual, to the point where he could not suppress the pain, push it away to the edges of his awareness like he had become so practiced at doing. Their constant, ice-fire burn made him want to tear his own skin off, kept him on edge, and in turn fueled the lava churning low in his belly. If he only got so much as half a chance...

But he never did. The Templars were as clever as he was, and so he had been forced to hand over his sword, as well as every last bit of his armor. And there was always one of them beside Merrill, crossbow in hand, waiting for him to make one wrong movement.

They might have escaped the Dalish, but they wouldn't escape this.

Merrill started coughing again behind him. It was a dry, raspy cough and it seemed like it would never stop. Fenris pretended not to notice and kept his head turned away from Marten as if studying the landscape; as if he could actually fool the man.

"Your hostage is not going to do you much good if she dies from exposure.", he observed as casually as he could possibly manage. The answer he got was as casual, and fueled his silent rage to a new pitch.

"Not much we can do out here. Except ride faster." The last bit was pointedly spoken; directed at him, he had no doubt. Everything past a fast walk put Fenris in acute danger of falling off his horse; he remembered the first and last attempt at a trot with horror. Giving over his control to a dumb beast was torture to him, and since he didn't have the slightest idea how riding worked, giving it over, holding on to the saddle and hoping for the best was all he could do. Horses were just not meant to be ridden, in his opinion.

"How much farther today?", he asked past clenched teeth. It was pointless, trying not to let his anger show, but he would not give Marten the satisfaction of letting him see how frantic he really was over Merrill's poor health.

"We should reach the next village by sunset, provided we don't dawdle."

Sunset. That was still three hours off. Fenris bit his lip until it bled and kept silent.

* * *

It took them more than three hours. Lamplight glistened in mud puddles, or what had been mud puddles during the day and were now freezing to dirty sheets of pockmarked ice, when Fenris fell off his horse. Literally fell off his horse; his legs had lost all feeling and were unable to support him, as he found out when his feet hit the ground. He took a deep breath, ignored the barks of laughter from all around, and roughly shoved his surprised horse's muzzle out of the way when it craned its neck around to look at him sitting on the ground.

Getting to his feet required some care on the treacherous ground, but he managed without any more loss of dignity. Meanwhile, one of the Templars (he hadn't bothered to remember their names; they were just faces to him, faces he would love to acquaint intimately with his fist) was cutting the ropes that bound Merrill in her saddle and caught her when she slid from it bonelessly. Fenris' breath caught in his throat. He would not betray worry, he told himself firmly, he would not- but it was hard, so hard, when he saw the Templar gather his- the little witch up in his arms and throw a quick glance at his captain, then hurry inside with her limp in his grasp like a life-sized rag doll. Worry was beginning to gnaw away at his guts yet again, but was chased away when his horse stepped on his foot.

Limping slightly, he entered the tavern after having handed his horse over to its keeper with a few choice curses. His first look around was to ascertain the whereabouts of Merrill and the Templar who had carried her in, but they were nowhere to be seen. The second look focused on the layout of the tavern itself and its patrons. Nothing unusual or disquieting there, it was a moderately large room without dark corners and rather well lit, and the few men talking quietly over pints of beer had a rugged, hardworking look and carried no weapons that he could see. A far cry from the Hanged Man's usual clientele.

Something jostled him from behind, and then a Templar pushed past him, stamping his feet on the floorboards and complaining loudly of the cold outside, which directly led to him ordering something hot and alcoholic to drink. Fenris noticed the uneasy looks he was suddenly getting from a lot of the villagers seated around the tables, and tamped down on the hazy glow his markings were emitting. He had been within an inch of whirling around and making the world one Templar the shorter, and the sudden burst of undirected, white-hot rage at something so simple as being pushed frightened even him. He lifted his hands to rub at his forehead. What was happening to him...?

"Elf."

He had his markings under better control this time. His expression, not so much, apparently; the Templar, a rather young, pudgy boy with a few scraggly wisps of beard, flinched away as if burned when his eyes snapped up to meet the human's.

"Y-you're wanted. About the apostate. You're supposed to feed her."

He was almost ashamed at how eagerly his heart leapt at this chance to get close to Merrill, to touch her and reassure himself that she was going to be fine. Caution warned him from letting any of that eagerness show.

"Feed her? Why can't one of you do that?" _And if you do, if you touch her, I'm going to rip you limb from limb, all of you..._

The boy had found an ounce of backbone now and crossed his arms, lifting his chin. "Because you're her lover, and we're Templars, not nurses."

"Could have fooled me.", he growled, crossing his arms over his chest and making sure he roughly bumped into the boy on his way past. It was petty, but being denied any other vent for his feelings, this would have to do.

Finding the room was not hard; there were only three to begin with, and there was a Templar posted before the door. The man nodded to him when he approached, armed with a bowl of soup and a spoon that he had liberated from the kitchen, and opened the door for him. Another Templar looked up from the book he was reading, sitting in a corner of the room, gave him a brief once-over and turned back to his volume of... Fenris arched a brow. But then again, why was he surprised? Of course it would be 'Hard in Hightown'.

And then, there was the bed, and its occupant. Fenris' heart missed a beat as he stepped closer, and suddenly, their guard was forgotten, there was only her anymore. Merrill looked so small and frail under the heavy blankets, almost like a child. She was lying curled up on her side, the outlines of her body showing under the bedding which was drawn up almost over her ears, lank dark hair plastered to her forehead. Her skin was damp with perspiration and looked almost grey in the poor lamplight.

Anxiety was replaced by real fear, joining the emotions already churning in the pit of his stomach. Having been kept separate for days, this was the first time he saw her up close, had opportunity to note how bad it really was. His own fault, too, more than likely, for stuffing her tunic with snow. Another shard of guilt cut him from within. And he dared to claim that all he wanted was to protect her...?

He put the bowl down on the bedside table and sat down beside her. Merrill stirred uneasily as the mattress shifted under his weight, her lashes fluttering. His heart did, too.

"Witch.", he murmured softly, hand hovering over her cheek, wanting so badly but not daring to touch her. He'd forfeited all right to that with the way he'd treated her. No, he would not allow himself this pleasure, guilty though it must be. What he would do if Merrill should be unable to eat by herself, he did not yet spare a thought on. She'd be able to sit up, surely, it was only a fever...

A soft groan came from her, and she stirred again, curling up tighter without waking up. Fenris debated just letting her sleep. She needed sleep more than food- he thought. Probably. But what did he know about nursing sick persons? It might just have been the other way around, and she looked so thin, her cheekbones jutting out alarmingly...

What would Anders have done? He couldn't remember... he'd never been hurt badly enough to require this kind of attention, and when one of the others had, he hadn't stuck around to offer his inexpert help. Whatever else the Abomination was, he was a damn fine healer and could do his job very well without him.

So, that line of thinking led nowhere. But then a weak, sick body would hardly get any less weak by not being fed. That had at least the merit of sounding logical, and following the thought up, he shook the little witch by the shoulder.

"Wake up. You need to eat something."

Another groan. But she did not wake, and it took long minutes of shaking her shoulder and keeping her from slipping back into sleep whenever she surfaced from it, until her eyes finally opened the merest of slits. He then tried to get her to sit up, which was even harder. Eventually, he was forced to admit that she could not do it without help, and maneuvered her into a half sitting, half leaning position, propped up against his own body, while trying to touch her as little as possible.

Merrill neither struggled, nor moved to help him, and she actively avoided meeting his look.

It made it easier. But even with her feverish hot body leaning against him, he felt cold.

He held the bowl of soup to her lips and helped her sip it, coaxed her to take more every time she stopped, and managed to get about half of it into her, before she fell asleep again with her head on his shoulder. He laid her down again gently, pulled the blanket over her, and left the room for the tavern and a joyless meal of his own.

Sitting on a bench in the most secluded corner he had been able to find and not even noticing that he was making mash out of his half-cold potatoes, his ears nevertheless pricked up when they caught bits of conversation between Marten and his second-in-command, sitting at the opposite end of the table and speaking in low voices. He kept his eyes down, but strained to hear, and caught no more than frustrating snippets drifting down.

"... through here a week ago..."

"Could be... way back..."

"... too soon... still looking for that Maleficar at..."

"... heard rumours… dead..."

"Then... maybe, yes... healer with them?"

"Corrun... good in a... level head..."

"_Good_."

Fenris sat there frozen, his fork forgotten between his fingers. Who had come through here a week ago? Another group of Templars? On the hunt for a Maleficar, as it sounded, and they had a healer with them?

There was hope, suddenly, bursting into flame from the all but dead embers in his heart. And just as suddenly was it extinguished again, as if a kettle of water had been poured over it. To hope was dangerous. He might have misinterpreted the words completely; the Templars might have gone back to Kirkwall by another route, or might not come back at all; and if they did, why would they have a healer with them? Only mages could heal, and the mages had all joined the rebellion- no? No, it would be some sort of apothecary, and he might not be able to help Merrill in time, assuming the Templar party came through here.

And if he did not...

The fork fell from his suddenly frozen fingers. His hands came up to cover his face, and he belatedly remembered that he was sitting in a rather full tavern room, had already drawn more attention to himself than was good, and should endeavor to draw no more, so he turned the gesture into rubbing at his eyes, got to his feet while murmuring something about being too tired to eat, and fled up the stairs as slowly as he could manage.

The Templar on guard was gone, thankfully; it seemed like they had finally realized that one sick apostate did not need two men to guard her, especially since there was nowhere her lover could take her in that state.

He was glad for the solitude. Leaning against the wall, he crushed the heels of his hands against his eyes and drew a deep breath. What _was_ happening to him? He had not meant to think that thought, but there it was, hovering treacherously at the edge of his awareness.

If the healer could not save Merrill, he was free.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's notes:** This chapter (at least its end) is still hot from the oven, any typos or other mistakes that might be in it should be attributed to this^^° I'm so sorry I left all my faithful readers hanging like that. I have no explanation, only an excuse; it's called Ezio. But now I'm through with AC2, and I promise I'll spend the time on this fic it deserves, now!

Enjoy!

**Apostate**

One sleepless night in the same room as _too many other people_, some of whom snored in the bargain, later, the other Templar party did indeed arrive. There were ten of them, and they had three riderless horses and one mousey elven mage with them. Fenris could not help staring at the man over his nearly untouched breakfast when the group filed into the tavern room. Corrun- if he remembered correctly- was middle aged, his light brown hair liberally streaked with grey, his slight figure swathed in furs, and he carried a staff openly. And he stood in the middle of the Templar group like he had any right in the world to be there.

A collaborator, then. Fenris did not know whether to praise the man for his sense, or despise him for his cowardice.

From his place in the corner, he watched Marten greet the other Captain and exchange a few words with him, saw the man nod to his mage, and the two of them walk upstairs. Fenris released a breath he had not been aware he was holding. A real healer. That meant Merrill would be alright, she would live... live, to be locked up in the Circle, as the living pledge to his loyalty.

They were gone so long that the porridge in his bowl had time to congeal to a lump and his ale to get warm, and then footsteps could be heard descending down the stairs, and they were back again. The small healer, the large Templar, and between them, Merrill, pale, thin, and with bags under her eyes, but those eyes were clear once again, wary and guarded like he had never seen them before. And still she refused to meet his look.

He told himself it didn't matter. All that mattered, for now, was that she would live. A chance to escape would present itself in time. Forgive him she might, or she might not, but _it didn't matter_. And with that, he shoved his doubts to the back of his mind, resolving not to think of them any more.

* * *

They left that same day, Fenris and Merrill separated by even more Templars than before. The chance he had been hoping for never presented itself. Traveling fast and with few pauses, Kirkwall was in sight within two more days. Entering through a heavily guarded gate near the Docks area, Fenris was appalled to see what had happened to the city. It was like seeing it after the Qunari attack, or the battle for the Circle, all over again, only worse. Entire blocks of houses were utterly destroyed, rubble and refuse littered the streets, as if there was no one left who had the strength to keep them clear any more. People in patched, dirty clothing hastily jumped out of the way of the Templars' horses, and returned to beg food and money off them as soon as they weren't in immediate danger of being ridden down any more.

Several recognized him, and by the looks on their thin, haggard faces, they did not bear him overmuch good will. One boy tried to spit at him, and missed. Muted muttering followed their party for longer.

The Docks themselves were also heavily guarded. The party entered a ferry- one of the few ships remaining- bringing their horses with them. The animals were too valuable to leave behind where they could be stolen and eaten by the desperate Kirkwallers, so valuable that apparently even the trouble of getting their fodder to the Gallows was not regarded.

And then that building rose up before them, cold, forbidding, and speaking of past despair, unchanged, but for the statues of weeping slaves, which were gone. In the final fight, when the power of the idol had brought them to life, nearly all of them had been destroyed. Fenris was not particularly unhappy to find them missing.

They left the ferry and walked up the steps to the Gallows' main square, and there he was: Knight Commander Cullen, standing quietly waiting for them in his heavy, unadorned armor, looking even more careworn than a year ago. He went to meet them halfway, exchanging nods with his Captains.

"Ser Marten, Ser Kristoff. Good to see you back. And you, serrah Fenris." Fenris inclined his head for the merest inch, and stood silently by as the Knight Commander received very abbreviated reports, gave orders to bring the apostate inside and consign her to the care of the First Enchanter, told his Captains to report at full in an hours' time at his office, and finally turned towards himself again. The tramp of receding steps from many tired, booted feet echoed off the marble walls, but Fenris resisted the temptation to cast one last glance at Merrill as she was led away. Instead, he met Ser Cullen's look with a steady, unflinching one of his own, one that did not bother to conceal the bubbling fury beneath.

The Templar's answer to his unspoken reproach was a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry it had to happen in this way."

Fenris only scoffed. Cullen sighed again, and motioned to him to follow, which he did, with bad grace. They crossed the yard, entering under the portcullis together, and walking up the steps to what had once been Meredith's office, and was now Cullen's. As soon as the door closed behind them, Fenris rounded on him.

"This is folly. You are grasping at straws- brittle straws, if you think that my presence here will make anything like a difference. The citizens hate me, your men see this as your personal spleen, no one will follow me or stand behind me, like you imagine. It is folly, Cullen, and you are a fool."

"You are entitled to think so, of course." The Knight Commander moved behind his desk, sitting down at it heavily, resting his elbows on the writing surface and his chin on his hands. "You are entitled to your anger- I understand that the apostate my men have brought with them is your lover. A surprising choice, I must say. Isn't she a blood mage?"

The words, so harmlessly spoken, nonetheless made Fenris' blood run cold. How did he know? What else had the Templars found out? No one, except for Hawke's companions, had ever known about Merrill's dangerous dabbling in the forbidden magic. She'd had at least the sense to keep it a secret and not use it when it could be avoided, and if Meredith had had the slightest inkling of any such thing, the alienage would have been raided and Merrill killed or made Tranquil before Hawke could even blink. No, Cullen must have found out later, when the little witch was already safely out of reach. There was only one possibility. But who? Who was it? Varric? Isabela? If Anders or Hawke herself had been apprehended, the news would have been all over the Free Marches, so it couldn't be them. And Isabela would never have moved from Hawke's side, which left only the dwarf.

His heart sank.

The shock must have registered on his face, for Cullen spoke up again in a low tone. "You seem surprised. Don't be. As Knight Commander in these unsettled times, I have, among other things, had to adopt measures I would have scorned as dishonorable not so long ago. A spy network can be very useful, as your friend Varric would no doubt assure you. And no, we have not captured any of your friends, apart from yourself and the Dalish, of course."

That, at least, was a relief. Too much so; wariness instantly kindled in him, and Fenris regarded the Templar with narrow eyes. He was not without his reasons for telling him that, he would wager, a reason that was far from kindness, though it did its best to appear as such.

He decided his best course would be to go on as if he hadn't heard it.

"What will you do with us now?", he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall; trying to act as if he wasn't quite as much a prisoner as Merrill was.

"You will stay in the officers' quarters. I'll have someone show you there. You have no need of a weapon, obviously, but I will direct the quartermaster to help you find what armor you require. He can also direct you to the training yard. You will have the freedom of the Gallows; I do, however, ask you not to leave it. And finally, as to orders, those will be forthcoming as needed." Cullen regarded him calmly across his desk, and Fenris could only nod, tersely. Friendly words, like the caress of his master's hand as the collar slipped around his neck; buckled and secured, the leash in this human's hands, whom he used to respect. A leash of his own weaving.

He fought the impulse to rub at his throat; breathing was harder than it had been a minute ago.

"And- Merrill?" It was a foolish thing to ask, the equivalent of pressing the blade against his own ribs, yet it wouldn't be stopped. What could he hope to accomplish by trying to hide the obvious?

"The apostate." There was a thoughtful look in Cullen's light brown eyes, a hesitation about him that puzzled Fenris for a second, until the man continued, and he learned exactly where the hitch in the Knight Commander's plan lay.

"She will, of course, be treated with respect. We will allow her to enter the Circle as an Enchanter- provided she passes her Harrowing."

* * *

It was a peaceful day, today. Her many duties did not normally leave her much time to simply be, to enjoy the soft breeze that tousled her hair like a lover's hand- she smiled at the thought- that made the _aravels_ sway and creak ever so softly and played with the fresh leaves on the trees, coaxing a rustling song from them. Wandering the trodden dirt paths between the tents, Merrill nodded her answers to the greetings that were called out to her by her clansmen, and stepped out of the way of a giggling band of children of various ages who came rushing up, faltered for a moment in awe when they caught sight of her and, with a piping chorus of "_Andaran'atishan_, Keeper!", bounded away again, like so many young halla. She looked after them, and winced when their boundless run brought two of them into collision and left them sprawled over each other, laughing breathlessly. No one was hurt, though, and a minute later the gang could be heard whooping from among the crafters' tents, and the scolding from their elders following them. Merrill shook her head, part in amusement, part in exasperation. Nothing could seem to keep these young rascals in check; then again, what more could a clan wish for, than such a bunch of lively, promising children, even if they came with a lot of racket and the occasional accident? Children were a clan's greatest treasure.

Speaking of which...

She had now reached the small, enclosed space in front of her and her husband's own tent, which was set a bit back from the others to afford a little more privacy. Another smile stole onto her face as she regarded the tableau before her. A small work table, with the now-abandoned attempt at a new bow strewn over it, and a small figure sitting on its edge, dangling her legs, a raven black head of hair in earnest parley with a silvery white one, so close as to be almost touching. Their daughter wasn't looking her way, but Fenris was, and the quick smile that flitted over his features when his eyes caught sight of her, alerted their little one to her mother's presence, and had her hopping off the table and scampering over on her short, toddling legs in the blink of an eye, to the accompaniment of a singsong of "Mama, mama, mama!". Merrill laughed at her delighted squeal when she was swept up, ignoring Fenris' caution from the background. With her daughter safely nestled in her arms, the little arms locked around her neck, she smiled at her husband's stern expression.

"You really should be more careful.", he chided her, putting his hand protectively on the slight bump just showing under her tunic. Warmth filled her, like hot water would a tea cup, from head to toe at his touch. Smiling, she kissed his cheek. "And you're overprotective. Don't worry, _ma'vhenan_, I would never do anything that could harm our baby."

"I hope so.", he groused, but she knew he was secretly pleased. And she understood his need to keep his loved ones as safe as he possibly could. Understood it, and loved him for it. "Why are you already back, at this time of day? I hadn't expected you for another few hours.", he then changed subject, tilting his head inqusitively.

"The clan is running itself for once, Creators be thanked. I've been able to sort that latest quarrel to everyone's satisfaction, I'm entitled to some time for my family now."

"And you wouldn't believe me when I said you'll make a good Keeper." His lips twitched into his customary barely-there smirk, and Merrill felt herself blush. "Ah, well... sometimes I feel I could do a lot better..."

But Fenris only shook his head. "You're doing great, Merrill.", he told her, planting a kiss on her forehead, and a cold shiver ran through her. Not because of the kiss, no, it was... something about what he said was... off.

When had Fenris ever called her by her name?

She did her best to smile through the sudden uneasiness, trying to push it away. What was wrong with her? This was her husband, her _ma'vhenan_, why would he not call her by her name? And where had that thought come from...?

Fenris was watching her intently, his brow creasing in a puzzled frown. "Is something wrong?"

"No. No, it's... nothing, I guess I'm just tired..."

But it was more than that. A disquieting, cold sensation had settled heavy in her belly, not any less potent because she did not know what she had to be disquieted about.

_When had he ever called her "Merrill"?_

She couldn't remember, and for a short, panicky moment, she thought she was going mad, losing her memory and her mind both. Her breath hitched, and Fenris stepped closer to lay his hand on her cheek, his expression worried. "Merrill?"

_When had he ever called her "Merrill"?_

She couldn't remember. And now her mind was racing down that track, she realized with horror that there was much more she couldn't remember. The clan, their marriage, the birth of their daughter, it was all shrouded in mist, almost like she'd dreamed it all, and try however hard she might, she couldn't recall anything of the past few years for certain. It was bits and pieces, shining bright whenever she looked at them, but as soon as she turned to another, it faded, leaving almost without a trace.

Frantically, she began picking through her memories, going back as far as she could as if to reassure herself those memories were still there, and breathing became easier when she found that they were, from the earliest remembrances of her parents' faces, which were also almost the last of them she had, having been put in Keeper Marethari's care at so young an age. Growing up under the Keeper's beneficial gaze, always feeling apart from the other children; her first quarrels with Marethari. Tamlen and Mahariel, the Mirror and what it had led her to do. All intact. The Free Marshes, Hawke, Kirkwall and everything that had transpired there: All of it was there. Leaving Hawke to wander alone, finding Fenris only to fall in love with him, their captivity and escape, the roads they had walked together, the first night... What he said to her, after. Templars and another journey, then the arrival at the Circle, and...

The realization was like a stab to the heart. This... all of this... a mere illusion. Her bright dream no more than a dream. And Fenris...

She stepped back, away from him- it- trying to gain some distance, trying to glare at the demon with tears in her eyes. "Leave me alone!"

The confusion, worry, sorrow, and _hurt_, that she saw passing over Fenris' face at that was almost too much for her, wrenching her heart in the most painful way imaginable. What if she was wrong? What if this really was him? She wasn't sure, there was nothing she could be sure of, her head swam and he was looking at her with those wide eyes, and all she wanted was to propel herself forward, into his arms, to cling to him and sob her apology.

His hand stretched out toward her, pleading, his eyebrows knit together in an expression of utter pain. "What's wrong? Merill, love... please tell me what's wrong..."

_Love._ How much she had wanted to hear that word from his lips. Hearing it now almost undid her, nearly crushing the last of her resolve. This was what she had wanted, and if a demon's dream was the only way she would ever get it... how could she refuse?

Why struggle; why fight to return to a reality in which Fenris would never again look at her, a reality in which she was a prisoner, like a bird in a cage, a reality in which she had failed in all her bright dreams and hopes and plans for her people's future?

Why indeed...

"Because I'm stronger than that."

The moment she said it, she actually believed it. If she gave in now, Marethari would have died for nothing, Hawke would have defended her for nothing...

No, giving in was not an option. But it was hard, so hard, to look on this face she loved so well and see it contorted in shock, Fenris' hand (which wasn't really his, whatever her heart told her, and she had to believe that or she would falter, and then it would be all over) reaching out to her. His eyes pleaded with her, but she flinched back. Her little daughter's arms tightened around her neck, the child sobbing in confusion, and the tears wetting her neck felt so _real_- and what if she was wrong after all...?

Her vision blurred. She wanted this- but it was wrong, a fabrication, a trap- _but she wanted it..._

And with her last ounce of resolve, she stepped forward and flung lightning at the thing in Fenris' form. It was a weak spell, lacking the concentrated power it would have had if channeled through her staff, and it did not even touch him- it- fizzing out in midair between them, but he- it- the demon- was sneering now, the mouth suddenly looking much broader then it had before, the teeth much sharper, and when it spoke, its voice was contorted, echoing, although there was nothing to echo off.

"Well. In this case..."

Fenris' form flickered, dissolving into a bright white mist, which then coalesced into another figure, slender, horned, female- "I see I cannot fool you, so how about we talk like sensible beings, hmmm?" A slim hand with clawlike fingernails slid up to cup a bare, shapely breast, the Desire Demon giving her a smile. Through the veil of tears, it looked like a grimace to Merrill.

The demon waved a hand and the camp was gone, the forest replaced by the surreal landscape of the Fade, pieced together from fragments of memories of the humans and elves trapped here over millennia, imperfectly understood and sloppily arranged. The illusionary weight on her hip was gone, the warmth of her dream children leaving her. She wanted to cry out then, but bit her lip and suppressed every sound of distress. The tears streaming down her face made the effort pointless, but she felt stronger for having made it.

"I don't barter with demons. Leave me!" A hiccup in the middle of the sentence ruined any pretense at firmness. Angry at herself, Merrill drew her arm across her eyes and glared at the apparition in front of her. It had less effect than her lightning spell. The demon simply smiled, sauntering closer.

"Oh, but you have. And what a pity your friends interfered when they did, when you were on the way to so much power, so much glory, for your people, hmmm? Well, it _is_ good for me- it puts me in the way of being able to offer you what you so desire. What do you say? A life free from chains, with that strong warrior at your side? I can give it to you. You know I can."

It was close now, close enough to touch. Merrill could smell it, like a forest in spring, like the breeze carrying the smell of a fast, cold brook, like fire smoke and musk. A pleasant smell. Like home. And what it offered... a free life? Maybe it could help her escape from the Gallows. Her, and Fenris. Maybe it could even help Fenris escape the memories of what Danarius did to him.

"_I may be free..." _

He had sounded almost proud when he told her that. Proud to have been... used in such a way. He had said nothing more or less than that he had offered himself up to it. Merrill could understand how it would have been horrible to... to lead this kind of life, enough so to make him as angry, and afraid, and hurt as he was, but not only to not struggle against it, but to _want_ it...

His words had conjured images in her mind, images she could not stand to look at. And neither could she stand to look at him. Proud, strong, independent Fenris- _begging_ this disgusting old man to-

What wouldn't she give to undo that moment, to make it as if he had never told her.

The demon smiled. It was directly in front of her now, and its hands were surprisingly soft, its eyes warm as it tilted her chin up and looked down on her. "Or... is there something else you want...?"

_Yes._

"No!"

The spell hit this time, hurling the demon backward hissing like a furious cat. All benevolence was gone from its eyes when they snapped back to Merrill, its face drawn into a hideous mask as it snarled at her. She wanted nothing more than to run, but knew that if she did, it would only hunt her down; she had to stand her ground now, make it back off for good, or it would keep her in its realm, blocking every exit. Would the Templars kill her if she didn't come back for a long time? Probably.

She did not want to die like this.

"Last chance, little mage. Don't make me make you regret this." The demon was moving- stalking- closer. The claws and horns suddenly seemed a lot more prominent. Fear thrilled through Merrill, and she filled her hands with lightning in a desperate attempt to look dangerous. If the demon was afraid, it didn't show it.

"I already do, but that doesn't mean I'll give you what you want. There'll be no bargain. Leave, let me go!" Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to keep it steady. She poured more of her magic into the lightning crackling between her fingers, and had the satisfaction of seeing the demon flinch back for the merest inch. Snatching at the opportunity, she took a step forward and flung the spell while her opponent was unprepared. Electricity crackled and arched from her fingers, hitting the

demon right on the chest and connecting the both of them by a searing bright bridge of light for a second. The scream echoed through the Fade.

The next spell was already crackling to life when the demon sagged to its knees a second later. Merrill stood frozen, waiting for retaliation, her heart hammering, sweat collecting on her brow. Now...

But the anticipated attack didn't come. There was a small 'pop' of inrushing air, and the spot where the Desire Demon had been kneeling was empty. Merrill released a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. It was over. She had defeated Desire, and now the Fade was fading, releasing her from its hold. The muted colours and twisted landscape frayed, blurred, and went black.

She opened her eyes to the sight of an unfamiliar stone ceiling. Fading sunlight was still painting it in faint red hues, but even as she watched, the soft glow receded and left the stone cold and gray and lifeless.

Much the same as she felt.

There was a soft thick blanket covering her from toes to chin, but it did nothing to warm her. She turned her head, taking in the sight of a small, rectangular stone room furnished with the barest necessities, such as her bed, a wash stand, and a clothes closet. There was a fireplace, but it was empty of wood, swept clean. A rug on the floor was the only concession to comfort, a tiny writing table along with a chair placed under one of the two windows like an afterthought, and like the afterthought of the afterthought, a book had been laid on it with mathematical precision, right in the center of the small board.

Her head swam when she sat up and placed her bare feet on the rug, vertigo seizing her as soon as she stood. She ignored it, making her way over to the second window, fumbling at the latch that kept it closed, and ripping it open with desperate strength, nearly panicking when it stuck for a moment. She was suffocating; she needed air, fresh air, needed to feel a breeze on her face, needed to feel like there was still a world outside this prison.

The window yielded to her. A gust of cold wind caught her hair and made her shiver. Standing up on tiptoes, she bent forward as far as the grate outside would let her, pressed her forehead against the cold iron, and peered down.

Space greeted her. And more stone. Her room seemed to be up in a tower, facing inside the Gallows, and all she saw was walls, walls, and more walls. Down they went from under her window, and up again on the other side of a small courtyard like a cliff, only this cliff had nothing of the rugged beauty of its natural siblings. It was smooth, only broken by grated windows, forbidding, a reminder of the sentence spoken over all who lived here. Never to be free again.

Her fingers tangled in the iron loops of the grating. A sharp edge pricked her thumb, and she looked up, seeing it for the first time. The metal had been wrought into the shape of a great tree, rooting on the windowsill and stretching its branches outward to push against the stone boundaries. She could even see the artfully crafted shapes of leaves, and fruit, and a small bird nesting here, a squirrel keeping watch there.

It was the only tree she was likely to see for a long, long time.

Her head fell forward again, banging against the iron painfully. She held on to the shape of the metal tree, and her tears fell freely down past the stone wall to be carried away by the wind before they could shatter on the pavement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's notes:** *juggles still- hot chapter over to the table* Whew! Here, have another one! I'm afraid it's rather shorter than the rest, but I didn't want to leave you hanging for so long.

Also, introducing a new OC. I'm quite curious what your reactions will be ;)

**Apostate**

Life went on, howevermuch Merrill felt that she would rather die. The First Enchanter came to see her next morning, accompanied by three Templars and a Tranquil carrying Enchanter's robes. The sight of the angry red sunburst between the man's brows made her shudder. She tried not to touch his fingers when he handed her the garments slung over his arm in a matter-of-fact fashion, knowing herself to be foolish, but unable to help it.

The men then stepped outside to give her time to dress, leaving her with the First Enchanter and a female Templar, neither of whom said a word to her while she slipped out of her nightshirt and, shivering, into the new robes. On the part of the Templar, who looked like Aveline's blond twin sister, this was not surprising, but the other woman's silence did not herald good things. She was a human, tall, thin, with a pinched and wrinkled face, stooping slightly. Merrill was not a good judge of how old a human might be, but she assumed that she was Orsino's senior by many years, and all of them showed on her embittered face.

Having dressed and brushed her tangled hair out with trembling hands, she turned to face her new life.

* * *

The Circle was a world of its own, she found. It had its own rules, its own traditions. Restrictive rules, to Merrill; traditions that made little to no sense to her. Among the Dalish, custom and old laws decreed how to treat each other, when and what to hunt, when to settle down and when to move on, how possessions were to be distributed among the clansmen, they regulated rituals, meetings between clans, and other things. There was not one single rule, written or otherwise, about when to get up- in the Circle, there was. And when to eat, when to study, when to rest, when to go to bed... Merrill forgot all of that as soon as she heard it. The same with the where to go to do what- she learned, to her amazement, that there were entire rooms dedicated to just eating- and who was allowed to wear what. Dormitory rules, library rules, rules of interaction between men and women, children and adults, mages and Templars... by the time the First Enchanter had finished showing her the buildings and explaining what would be expected of her, her head was swimming, she knew she would never be able to remember all of that, and she simply longed to get back to her room and have a good, long cry, like a da'len. And the sheer enormity of the Gallows itself! Miles of hallways, rooms enough to fit the Deep Roads in, stairs you could climb Sundermount with thrice if you put them one on top of the other. It all almost looked the same, too.

Merrill found herself longing for a ball of twine. Longing for Varric to find her and show her the way, making her feel better with one of his easy jokes. Longing for the world outside, where there were no stone walls hemming her in.

"So." The First Enchanter- Isobel, and how different she was from her namesake- turned abruptly to face her, and Merrill just avoided walking into her by taking a hasty step backward. "Do you understand what I have told you?" She looked like a vulture, eyes boring into her, and Merrill nodded hastily, although what she really wanted was to shake her head, or burst into tears. Maybe both. She was barely able to keep the hitch out of her voice that wanted to creep into it when she mumbled a small "Yes."

"Good. You are free to take your breakfast now, if you are hungry. Ser Evan will accompany you-", the dark-haired Templar nodded once, "- as you will always be accompanied by one of our Templars when you are not in your room. A simple safety measure. Later, there is a lecture for you to attend. The first classroom on the Library level, Ser Evan, you know which one I mean, please take her there if she does not remember the way. After that, you'll be free to study on your own until dinner. Make good use of our books. And now you will excuse me..." And she swept away, leaving Merrill feeling overwhelmed and breathless. The Templar squad followed, dispersing among the people in the mess room- for that was where they had stopped- so now there was only Ser Evan left standing beside her.

A small chuckle from that individual now directed her attention to him, staring at him; his amusement seemed so out of place. He caught her look and smiled down at her, being as tall as Fenris, or maybe taller.

"No need to look so scared. Our dear 'Belle always sounds like that; don't take it to heart. Her bark's worse than her bite."

"She didn't exactly bark.", was all Merrill could think of to murmur, and it made her feel instantly foolish, until Ser Evan threw his head back and laughed. Amazed, she blinked at him. It hadn't been that funny, now had it?

"No, she doesn't.", he chuckled once he was done laughing. "She hisses and spits, but that's all. Just let it slide off. Words can't hurt, and she hasn't incinerated anyone yet, to my knowledge." And then he laughed again when he saw her face.

Merrill didn't know what to say. Her ears were glowing, and all that came out of her mouth was a stammering protest against the way he talked of his elder. Then she remembered what he was, and what Isobel was, and fell silent.

Ser Evan regarded her with a grin that eventually faded to a more sober expression. "Now, seriously. You just do what she says, don't talk back, and attend lectures, and you'll get along swimmingly. She's very fond of learning- what is it?"

"I... I know I'm terribly stupid, I don't remember any of what she told me, it's just so much, and, and... I'm so lost here, I won't be able to find my way around, I'll be late to everything, the First Enchanter will be mad at me, I'll just make a mess out of things again, I..." _I want to get out of here!_

But she couldn't very well tell him that.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and drew her to the side, away from the open doorway, where they had been in sight of the entire room beyond; a fact Merrill remembered only just now. Her cheeks flushed, even as she was struggling to fight back her tears.

Evan maneuvered her a small ways away, into the nook before a closed window. Then he wordlessly handed her a handkerchief. Then stood there with a hand on her shoulder while she sobbed into the piece of fabric, soaking it with her tears. Merrill felt oddly grateful for this, even though it came from a Templar. But then, not all Templars had to be evil- Keran certainly hadn't been, and Thrask, and poor Emeric. Maybe Evan was just such a one, too.

A few minutes later, she stifled a hiccup and wiped her face with the handkerchief, looking at it ruefully. But Evan didn't seem to mind that it was soaked with salty water and snot, just stuffing it back into a pocket somewhere about his armor when she handed it back with a small "Thank you."

He even smiled at her, and now that she looked at him, she noticed he had quite the pleasant face, for a Shem, along with a boyish sparkle in his hazel eyes that reminded her of Hawke, just a bit. His black hair was tousled and could use a cut, but as it was, it suited him. Tentatively, she returned the smile, and his eyes lit up. _Now_ he was positively handsome. For a Shem.

"Better?", he asked in a soft voice, and she nodded. "A bit. Thank you. I'm such a fool..."

"Because you broke down?" Evan's lips twitched into a smile. "As if you were the first mage ever to do that. You should see the scenes we get here. And not just the children, either. Grant you, _I_'d be frightened if they took me away from my folks and stuffed me in here, so I'm not blaming you. You'll get used to it, and if you get lost, well, that's what we're here for. I'll help you find your way around, and the other Templars will, as well. So now, cheer up. You're much prettier when you're smiling."

For some reason, that made her smile widen and her cheeks redden. She cleared her throat and looked away; everywhere but at him. Much to her relief, Evan took the hint and, cocking his head slightly, suggested that they better get something to eat before the tables were cleared. Merrill was only too glad to acquiesce. Her stomach felt about ready to eat itself as it was...

The moment they stepped through the door, her behind the Templar, however, she almost wanted to turn and run out. All eyes were suddenly on them, as talk faltered and spoons halted in midair. Merrill could feel the looks crawl all over her, assessing her; robes, _vallaslin_ and all. She hadn't entirely stopped blushing yet; now the heat returned to her face full force, making her feel as if it were about to burst into flame. If it were possible to hide behind Evan, she would have done so. #

As it was, everyone who wanted to was able to get a good, long look at her as they crossed the room over to a few long tables where, apparently, the food was distributed. Evan had to ask her twice what she wanted, because she was more than a little distracted by the awkward, humiliating sensation of hundreds of eyes boring into her back, and even when she realized he was talking to her, all she managed to convey was that she would eat whatever he did.

This was a mistake, she found when Evan had sat her down on one of the long benches lining the tables. Human eating habits were odd, and the Templar's were no exception, apparently. He'd chosen a sort of flat cake with marmalade on it, as well as some roast sausage and white fluffy bread, and ale to drink. As she did not want to begin her first day in the Circle by getting drunk, Merrill only sipped at the latter, and picked at the cakes (which were surprisingly good- still she found it odd to eat sweet foods for breakfast), and managed only a fraction of what her new protector did. A good thing that he didn't mind polishing off her plate as well.

By the time they were done eating, the room had almost completely emptied. Mages and Templars both had left for their duties, some older ones herding off a small group of children and teens, the Tranquil dispersing, much to Merrill's relief. There had been so many of them, nearly more than there were mages. Meredith's work, she had little doubt about that. As to the mages themselves, most of them had seemed to be older. There were more humans than elves, which was to be expected, and equally as many men as women. But most noticeable was the age gap. She wondered at this, until she remembered that most of the younger mages had fought in the battle of the Gallows. Those who had not died then probably escaped to become apostates.

Evan pushed the second empty plate away and yawned hugely, stretching his arms above his head. Another Templar nearby gave him a disapproving look, which went summarily ignored as the dark-haired human turned to Merrill again. "Whew... now I'm probably going to fall asleep during lectures. I hope you won't try to run away when I'm not looking- eh?" He winked at her. Merrill gave a lopsided smile in response.

"I wouldn't get far, even with you asleep. But- what is a lecture? I don't remember ever seeing one."

"That's because you hear them.", Evan grinned, helping her up and leading her out of the room and down the hallway. "Mainly it's one person speaking about all manner of wise things and the rest sitting and listening. If you want to look as if you're interested, you can also take notes. I've heard so many lectures I could give them myself now. The theory of magic. The history of magic. What The Chantry Says About Magic. It's dry and dull, honestly..."

"It sounds interesting, though..."

"Not when you've heard it about a hundred times over. One Templar always has to be present at lectures, you know. Most of us know more about ways to fix a cough with magical healing than the mages themselves... this way." He grabbed her elbow and steered her around a corner she would have walked right past. Merrill lifted her eyes from the tips of her shoes and gasped.

Beside her, Evan grinned.

"Right. You haven't yet seen the library. Do you like it?" His eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Like it?" Merrill was turning on the spot, trying to see all of the levels of the library at once. They rose up before her like the inside of a tower built solely from books. It was overwhelming. "Creators, I never knew there were so many books in all the world... how many are there?"

"Oh... a few thousand, I guess."

Merrill's eyes went as big and round as saucers. Evan chuckled, amused at her obvious amazement. "I don't need to ask you if you're a reading person, I guess...", he stated, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the laughter he was trying to suppress. Merrill gave no answer. She made a beeline to the nearest bookcase and ran her hand along the backs of the tomes reverently, mouthing the titles to herself. Then, as if she had suddenly recollected something, she turned back to her escort hurriedly. "And I can read all of them? Or are there books that are reserved for, I don't know... I'd hate to get my hands on the wrong books..." She was rubbing the backs of her hands, as if she had inadvertently touched a book that was forbidden to her and was trying to wipe the influence off. But Evan only shook his head.

"You can read every last one that's out here. The ones that're not supposed to be read are safely locked where you won't stumble across them." Merrill's eyes lit up again, and he grabbed her shoulder, chortling. "Not now, though. We're expected somewhere, remember?"

"Oh... oh! I almost... I forgot, I'm sorry." Her ears turned red. "I'm such a fool..."

"Nevermind. But come along now, or we'll be late." And he led her off, much to her regret. But she made a mental note to come back to the library as soon as ever possible. Maybe Circle life wouldn't be all that bad, after all...

* * *

Or maybe it would. Two hours later, Merrill was feeling humiliated and lost again, an utter fool, naïve and stupid. And she didn't even know what she'd done wrong...

Granted, maybe she had let herself be run away with by her pride of being so knowledgeable, but then this... Master Enchanter or whatever her title was _had_ asked her to tell the class something about the magic of the Dales, so of course that's what she would do. She stood up as she was told to and proudly addressed the mixed audience of humans and elves as she traced the origins of elvish magic back to Arlathan, told of the Dalish people's search for fragments of this lost paradise, and closed with a cautionary note on how dangerous this knowledge could be, their ancestors having been so much more advanced in magical matters. Very proud of herself, for delivering such a long speech with a minimum of stuttering and blushing, she turned towards the- lecturer? Teacher? Hahren?- and looked into a smile of such sugary quality that even she was unable to confuse it for an honest one. And if she'd had any doubts, the woman's next words did away with them.

"Thank you, Enchanter Merrill. We are all a little wiser now. Let us never forget, however, the reason for the downfall of the Dales: Vanity.

You may sit down now.", she added with a condescending little nod, and Merrill sank back into her seat, beet red to the tips of her ears. She'd been set up to embarrass herself, and she hadn't noticed until now. By another elf, no less, and this was what made her most miserable. What reason would a fellow elf have to do this to her? Had she ever done her any wrong? How could she have?

It was beyond her, and it was enough to sap any pleasure about the multitude of books now at her disposal out of her, leaving her listlessly perusing the titles on the backs of the tomes, where before, she could almost have skipped along the rows and endless rows of knowledge on paper. Occasionally, she would draw out a volume from amongst its peers, leaf through it in a half-hearted way, and put it back. Nothing was able to catch her attention enough to put the nagging thought from her mind: Why?

Another book slid from the shelf and fell open into her hand, but she was unable to read any of the writing. Her vision was blurring. She was crying far too often lately, and despised herself for it, but she was unable to help it.

Before her tears could fall and blot the precious paper, she snapped the book closed and stuffed it back with far more energy than the task warranted, and then stood trying to blink back the moisture in her eyes.

From behind her came a voice that was quickly becoming familiar.

"What's wrong?" Evan sounded genuinely concerned. It sparked a warm feeling inside her chest, for a second or so. Then it was snuffed out again like a candle flame.

"I... nothing."

Evan snorted. "Yeah, right. But I won't push you. You can flutter onto my shoulder and tell me your troubles when you're ready to, like the little bird you are, how does that sound?"

It sounded funny enough to actually make her chuckle. "I've never been called a bird before. A kitten and a daisy, but never a bird. I think I like it." Her fingers ran over the ridged leather binding of yet another thick book.

"Then I'll keep it. Little bird. Just come flying to me and chirp to me when you want. I'll always be around somewhere."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's notes:** *drops ded* I'm sooo tired of fiddling around with this chapter! Esp. Fenris' POV was a b**ch to write. Not much happening, and on the other hand, quite a lot happening... well, you'll see. Enjoy, hopefully ;)

**Apostate**

Evan and his smile soon became her lifeline. She didn't know what she would have done without him there to tell her the way, preserve her from the pitfalls of Circle society, and shield her from the other mages. Her status was a secret, which meant that everybody knew about it. Her history with Hawke, her heritage, her life as an apostate, her elvhen blood, her being a woman- there was nothing, seemingly, that did not make her the object of ridicule and scorn, here, in this small, isolated community. It was entirely new to her, and not a little distressing. She lay awake for nights on end, anguishing over what she could have done wrong to make them hate her so- weren't they all in the same boat? In the close-knit clans of the Dalish, quarrels were frequent, but they were carried out openly, and every party concerned would have their say. Here, she often did not even realize what a remark meant until she thought about it later and saw that under the honeyed praise of her prowess in nature magic lingered the poison of spite.

It hurt. It made her wary, and though she longed for friends in this strange new world, she did not dare approach anyone anymore. Her only friend was Evan, and he wasn't always there. Other Templars would guard her, and they were friendly at best, but none of them inspired trust in her.

Fenris she hadn't seen for weeks.

She had fallen into a routine of sorts; or a routine had been made for her, leaving her barely any time to herself between lectures, studying, and meals. The only times she was alone were at night, when she lay awake, or stood by her window staring out, feeling like a bird indeed; a small bird that fluttered against the bars of its cage, succeeding only in hurting itself when it bumped against the metal.

The book she had found on her table when she first woke up in her room, she knew by heart now: A treatise about maleficars. She read it when she couldn't sleep, by the light of a candle. It was intended as punishment, and she took it as such, but her hands and eyes kept straying back to it. Leafing through it, looking at the garish, hand-drawn pictures of abominations and their victims, she was transported back to the cave on Sundermount, to Marethari's last moments, and she shuddered for how close she had come.

Tired though she was, constantly, due to lack of sleep by night and a very busy timetable by day, she was still restless. The confines of the Gallows' stone rooms, stone hallways, stone courtyards, which she was allowed to visit once a day, took her breath away and made her feel claustrophobic. She had been pale and thin to begin with, due to her illness, and the prison she found herself in now prevented any recovery. If she did not positively wilt, like Varric had been concerned so long ago, it was only due to her new friend's support holding her up. Even so, a nagging headache became a near-constant companion, and an apathy took hold of her that it was only possible to counter with the utmost exertion of will on her part. She hated herself for it, but there was no help, except forcing herself, again and again, to do things that should have been easy, but were now hard and joyless tasks.

The only thing she loved in all this dreary coldness was the library. Studying was the one thing that gave her joy, and she spent so much time over the various books, fascinated and utterly enthralled by the knowledge they held, that the Templars who took turns guarding her began to jokingly make bets on how many books she would devour during their shifts. The lectures went well enough, as long as she was left in peace, but the first time she was asked to perform a healing spell was also the first time in weeks she ended up crying in her room in the evening. She simply could not do it, and she knew why, and suspected that the other mages did, as well. It made her even more of an outcast.

Then one day, Evan said his evening good-bye to her with the words, "The Knight-Commander has consented to let you see your lover tomorrow."

She tried to say something, but nothing would come out. Evan's eyes narrowed, but his tone stayed light as he continued, "Well, you look overjoyed, that's for sure."

Merrill forced a smile that did not reach her eyes; a second later, she averted them towards the ground, unable to look at the Templar a second longer. She _should_ be overjoyed; she'd be seeing Fenris again.

But she was afraid.

Evan's hand landed on her shoulder. When this was not enough to make her look up, his fingers gently tilted her chin upward until he could see her face. His smile was gone. "What is it?"

Still no words would come; she stared helplessly back. Now the Templar's mouth drew into a frown. "Now don't try to tell me nothing's wrong. You look like someone just told you you'd have to marry the Knight Commander- don't tell him I said that. Come, spit it out."

"I..." Merrill licked her lips, wanting desperately to just escape to her room. She couldn't tell him what had happened between them. Because that would mean repeating what Fenris had told her, and she wouldn't do that to him, not even now.

"I... I'm just nervous." She tried for another smile. The frown was still there, and her attempt at being brave almost kindled out in the face of it. Evan did not believe her, that much was plain, but his next words convinced her that he did not, yet, suspect the truth.

"You know I'll be right outside your door. If he tries anything... you call out. Alright?" His hand, still resting on her shoulder, was big and heavy, so very human. But also warm, reassuring, and though she was reluctant to do so, she nodded, and let him think what he wanted about Fenris.

It made her feel like a traitor. But she wasn't, was she? It was Fenris who had kept things from her. If anyone was a traitor, it was him. And Evan was smiling again, her only friend.

"You know, that does make me feel better. Now, off you flutter, to your perch. Goodnight, little bird."

Flutter she did not, but she went; for some reason, with a lighter heart.

* * *

Come evening the next day, it was her heart that was fluttering. She was sitting alone in her room, perched on the windowsill, knees drawn up towards her chest. It wasn't the most dignified of positions, but she couldn't care less. Her look was trained on the world outside her window- or what was left of the world for her to see.

Only minutes had passed since she had come through her door, but already it felt like hours. The waiting was agony; the entire last night and day had been one long string of anxious moments. Would he even come? Wouldn't he rather choose not to, considering...? What would she do, what should she say, if he did come? What to do if he didn't? Should she apologize- and how? But then, would an apology change anything? Nothing could make her not know of his weakness, and she could not forgive that; it repulsed her to the core of her being.

And yet...

Her head hit the glass of the windowpane with a soft clonking sound. She was tired of these doubts, angry at Fenris for making her wait, angry at herself for agonizing over him. No, she would not apologize. That was his part. She would not even be here but for him, but for his involvement with the Templars, his betrayal of Hawke. If he had only stood by them, the people who had been his friends for years, none of this would have happened.

But nothing could change the feeling of betrayal over what he had done to Merrill herself. For so long she had admired his strength, even as she lived in horror of his acid comments, his bitter attacks against herself that came seemingly out of the blue. Even then he had seemed the embodiment of an unbreakable will. Not so anymore.

To think that she had loved a farce...

The door opened, almost noiselessly. Merrill startled. She had heard no footsteps; which wasn't surprising, since Fenris was proven to be barefoot again when he stepped into the room and drew the door closed behind him. Other than that, he was clothed in the silver and red of the Templar order; and here the similarities ended again, already. The sunburst was there, on the chest piece of his armor, but he was wearing trousers- leather dyed red, if she was any judge- with bracers and shin guards, and had forgone the spaulders and helmet. If not for the splashes of color, he might have been a silver ghost. His hair was, once again, pure white, the makeshift dye having grown out of it, and long enough to tie back, and he had done so. The sight sent an odd little thrill down her spine.

And the look in those green eyes, when they found hers... it was the old Fenris come again. It was the look he had worn when they first met, all these years ago, carefully schooled to show nothing at all.

Her heart plummeted. And then she got angry. He dared come here and give her this look, after all that had happened?

Her first impulse was to walk over there and slap him. But no. She had enough of this city elf, and she would not give herself the trouble to hop off this windowsill on his behalf, so with what she very much hoped was a curt, cold nod, she dismissed his presence and turned to look out of the window again.

* * *

Fenris saw her eyes narrow as soon as he was inside the room the Knight-Commander had appointed as hers. A luxury; a single room. It made it easier to guard her.

He didn't know what welcome he'd been expecting, after being prevented from seeing her even for a moment for weeks on end, but it certainly wasn't this. A narrowing of her eyes, a frigid nod, the Dalish mage turning away in dismissal of him. He might as well have ceased to exist in that moment.

Could he blame her? No, but it didn't make it easier to bear. He told himself he was foolish to expect anything else. Being able to protect her from afar was the best he could hope for. The best for both of them, probably.

He should go, he knew that. It would be the best thing to do, and yet, here he was, staring at Merrill's slender form like a moonstruck idiot, unable to look away, unable to leave, unable to approach her. He found himself mutely studying her from a distance, instead. What he saw dismayed him, yet could not surprise him: She looked no better than when he had seen her last, barely healed from her illness. Face drawn and pale, she looked older than she ever had. All color had fled from her face, even the green of her eyes seemed dimmed somehow. The once bubbly, pretty girl, a woman whose very beauty enhanced her frailty; for beautiful she was, still, to him, and he knew she would always be. Yet that was what made seeing her like this even more painful.

He longed for that girl now.

But there was now getting her back.

And he could only watch from afar, as she withered, having been the one to take her freedom away from her, that was to a Dalish what water was to a fish. A fact he had taken so long to realize- until it was too late.

He ought to go, but knew he couldn't. The Templars might get suspicious- _So leave her_, a whisper in his head said, and he shook it violently as if that might dislodge the traitorous thought. It never did, though. Sometimes, in an unguarded moment, that whisper would sound in his head. Leave her. Cast her off. Free yourself.

It was getting harder to disregard it, too.

The past few weeks hadn't been kind to him, either. The unseen fetters holding him chafed. He hadn't known just how much he had gotten used to freedom until it was taken away from him again.

Of course, Cullen's plan had not quite worked out the way the Knight Commander thought it would. Fenris wasn't so much a beacon of light in the darkness of these dangerous times as an object of ridicule among the Templars. Those he hadn't yet beaten in the training yard, at least. It was the one thing he delighted in, if grimly: the daily training for those men and women not out on patrol. No single Templar had yet been able to defeat the whirlwind of steel and lyrium he would become, and in a matter of minutes, the proud knights would cower at his feet battered and bleeding. Cullen had been making noises about him taking the training in hand, too; he found he was actually looking forward to it. Swinging his sword made him forget, for a time, the predicament he was in, made him forget about Merrill, the mages, the war, his hopeless situation.

Hopeless, as long as he clung to her, and a love that had evaporated like mist the moment he said those words to her.

In all honesty, the most difficult part of being an honorary Templar had been... the riding lessons. Now that the Kirkwall division of the order had been forced to send out large patrols on a regular basis, to root out rebellions before they got a chance to grow, horses had come to play an important part in all this. Fenris had hated the ride here, and he hated the lessons in one of the courtyards-turned-makeshift pen even more. Who would have thought it was so difficult to get an animal to do what you wanted it to do? Plus, it made muscles ache he hadn't even known existed- he'd been walking bow-legged for a week after his first lesson- and it provided plenty of opportunity for making a fool of himself. He'd almost been trampled after his first fall, and being yelled at for using the reins for steering, leaning back, leaning forward, leaning any which way, having his legs in the wrong position, his hands too high, too low, too- whatever... it was all he could do, after each lesson, not to strangle the instructor.

That, and he still did not trust the beasts. And they seemed to know that, and rewarded him by doing their utmost to make his day difficult. He'd gotten really good at pulling his feet out of the way just in time, though.

Then, after he'd more or less mastered the art- of staying on top, at least- he had been sent along on his first patrol. That was something he didn't mind doing, as it involved finding and eliminating dangerous apostates. And it was the only times he ever left the small, isolated world of the Gallows. The only times when he felt he could breathe; but also when that small voice in his head was loudest. A horse under him (even if his control over it entirely depended on the goodwill of the beast itself), a sword on his back, provisions in his saddlebags. Times when he wasn't watched closely, when a swift turn and a hard kick might buy him his freedom.

He'd never taken the opportunity. Yet.

If she would just give him _something_...

He couldn't stand it anymore. Pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against, he slowly padded closer on silent bare feet. If Merrill heard him approach, she gave no sign of it, her face remained turned away from him. An arm's length from her, he stopped, knowing she knew he was there, and still, no sign. His hand reached out, as if it had acquired a life of its own, and he could watch his fingers brush the green fabric of her Enchanter's robes over her shoulder. A sharp intake of breath from Merrill, her head almost-turning around, her green eyes wide... and his hand wrapped around her upper arm, tugging sharply to make her face him, pulling her off the windowsill to stumble against him with a small, surprised cry. Still holding her upright, his free hand came up to cup her cheek, trying desperately to make her look at him, to meet her eyes and see for himself the feelings she harbored for him, be they love or hate. But Merrill tucked her head down sharply, struggling against his grip with all her strength- which was not much, pushing at his chest with her untrapped hand, fighting silently.

"Merrill." His voice, he realized. Hoarse, low, pleading, as she turned her face away with an abrupt movement when he tried to tilt her chin up. "Merrill..."

She suddenly went still and rigid in his grasp. Her shoulders trembled, but her voice sounded harsh and clipped. "Let. me. go."

He almost didn't. His control over himself was slipping, strained to the point of agony. She was right there, in his power, he only had to pull her close and she would be his...

And before he could do what he was about to do, he broke away, pushing her against the windowsill, and stepped back, hurried, ashamed of himself. From the corner of his eye he saw her straighten up with a wince, rubbing her ribs, and a flare of guilt burned thought him. Maker, he'd been so close to... to...

"Forgive me. I..." It was pointless, he knew that as soon as he said it, but he just had to. Her eyes snapped up to him, finally, though they were angry, pained, and freezing cold.

"Go." Just that one word.

He went, afraid of what he might do if he didn't.

* * *

He went, and left her shivering. The moment he was out the door, a raven-haired head poked in through it, regarding her suspiciously, and then Evan strode inside the room, pushing the door to in passing, and swept her up against his hard breastplate almost like Fenris had done before. She had no strength left for resistance, so she simply let him, allowing herself to be supported by the Templar's arms. His grip was firm, lacking the desperate strength of the elven warrior's. A shudder ran through her, remembering this strength, never experienced before. It had been frightening- she had honestly not expected Fenris to back down when she told him to, and maybe part of her had been hoping that he wouldn't, just for a second.

"Did he hurt you?", Evan's voice sounded low close to her ear. She shook her head, although he had, her ribs were still smarting from where she'd hit the windowsill. "I'm alright.", she managed.

"Then why are you trembling?"

She had no answer for that.

Evan held her a little while longer, until her trembling had subsided, letting her go slowly when she tried to extricate herself. His armor wasn't a model of comfortableness, and she felt like a child standing there, letting herself be comforted. His hands lingered a moment on her arms, then he stepped away, looking at her critically.

"Better?"

Sighing, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded. "I'm tired."

He nodded. "Then I'll leave you for the night. Sleep well, little bird." A second's hesitating, then he turned to go. He was almost out the door when she called after him.

"Evan... thank you."

"Anytime." With that and a last, encouraging smile over his shoulder, he left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's notes:** Wow. I thought I'd never get this done. This chapter so did _not_ want to be written. Working overtime every day for three weeks straight, and receiving a concussion (Note: riding bareback without a helmet on is not a good idea. Really not.) as well did not exactly help it along. But here it is, for your reading pleasure (I sincerely hope). Might be dragging the plot a bit, I'll try to get up to speed with the next chapter more.

Also a **WARNING: **The scene after the flashback (in italics) may be **potentially triggering**! Please do not read if you don't feel up to it, everything that happens in this scene is going to be explained later, you won't be missing the plot details!

And yes, I'm awful at inventing names for side characters *coughs*

**Apostate**

"We're right behind them, Captain." The Templar scout was panting, having apparently run all the way back to meet the patrol. The Captain thus addressed, a man like a bear on a horse to match, nodded curtly. "Right. Squad form up, we're moving. They're not escaping this time."

Fenris grabbed the reins on his gelding tighter, causing the horse to toss its head impatiently. The small, swift dapple grey wasn't the only one whose patience was running out; Fenris himself was tired of spending hours in the saddle each day, tracking a fugitive group of apostates through what was beginning to feel like half the Free Marches. With the weather getting dryer and warmer, it was becoming easier for fugitives on foot to avoid the mounted patrols, and these ones had led them a merry goose chase up and down the country.

The scout mounted his own horse and the Templars formed into ranks of two. The narrow wain road would admit no more. Then they set off at a trot, Fenris kicking his as-yet-unnamed horse into motion, although it didn't really need the encouragement.

The forest flew past them, spring flowers, budding branches and all. Merrill would have loved it, he thought, and mentally kicked himself. Merrill would never see a forest in spring again, and she seemed to have accepted that fact. Since that one disastrous meeting, he'd seen her three or four times, every one more agonizingly tense to him, and had been appalled at the dispassionate, resigned mage before him. It was almost as if she was Tranquil. And he'd caught glimpses of her and her Templar guards in between; she walked beside them like a wraith, eyes downcast. The only notable exception to this was when the black-haired Templar was with her, one Ser Evan. She seemed almost animated with him- in comparison, at least- even smiling her new subdued smile at him. And he walked always just that tiny bit too close to her.

He growled under his breath, gritting his teeth to drive the thought from his head. It wouldn't budge. Not jealousy was it that kept his thoughts returning to the unlikely pair of Templar and Dalish mage, or so he told himself. He knew the workings of power too well, what power did to those who had the fates of the powerless in their hands, and he feared for her. But there was nothing, short of taking on the entire Gallows, he could do about that.

He shook his head again more vigorously and tried to focus on the present; breathing the fragrant air, wind whipping through his hair as his horse stretched into a gallop, the feeling of strong muscles bunching beneath him to carry them along with unrivaled speed exhilarating. Now that he'd gotten used to it, anyway. Bending low over the horses' neck he felt the sudden urge to egg him on a little more and overtake the entire party, just to see if he could, but that vanished in a twinkling. There were crossbows here just waiting for him to try an escape, still. He wasn't yet that desperate.

The horses pounding along the soft forest floor rounded a bend, and it appeared in front of them like a rather shabby fata morgana: A cluster of small, thatched houses, five or six, surrounded by little kitchen gardens and populated mainly by chickens and geese. Some few astonished faces turned to watch the Templar patrol rein their horses in on what might have passed for the town square, if the tiny settlement had warranted giving the muddy spot such a grand name, and Fenris saw a man in a straw hat, who had apparently been occupied with weeding his garden, grab the brim of his hat, and scuttle inside his house. His eyes narrowed. This was a man with an uneasy conscience, if ever he saw one...

He trotted up to the Captain's side and saw by his look that he had noticed, as well. A short nod was all that Fenris needed to swing down off his horse, already reaching back to loosen his sword in its scabbard as soon as his feet hit the ground, and gesturing over his shoulder for some of the men and women to follow him. Four Templars dismounted in compliance with his command; others dispersed to search the other houses, and again others to surround the village and make sure no one would be able to flee. It was a well-practiced maneuver by now; necessarily so.

Fenris did not kick the door open, as any of the heavy-booted Templars might have. He entered the tiny dwelling silently as a ghost, hand on the pommel of his sword, ready for fireballs, shades, or a full-fledged abomination.

What he found was an empty kitchen. For some reason, that put him even more on edge. Where were they?

"Search it.", he ground out, and his small group of Templars disappeared behind various doors. Fenris himself stalked cautiously around the large hearth occupying most of the space within the kitchen, and found only a stack of firewood behind it. Eyeing the oven door speculatively for a second, he then dismissed it as being too small to admit anyone, pushed the stacked wood to the side, and found no hidden cellar door beneath.

That was when a scream from somewhere to his left sent him whirling and charging in that direction, clearing the hearth in one leap. He burst through what turned out to be the bedroom door, to find one of his men dragging a kicking, squirming woman out from under the bed. Or at least he had been in the process of doing that, until the woman's husband- his man with the straw hat- had grabbed a chair and was advancing with it raised like a weapon. The Templar's sword was already half out of its sheath, but Fenris was faster. Lyrium flashed briefly, and the man crumpled to the floor in an untidy heap, chair thudding down on top of him.

As the misty blue-white light faded, Fenris looked up from the body to see the woman trying to burrow into the wall, staring at him in horror. He was so used to having that kind of look directed at him, it didn't even irritate him anymore. "Take her.", he ordered curtly, and his subordinate nodded, sheathed his weapon, and hauled the woman up by her arm, just as the sounds of struggling from another room reached their ears. There was yelling, and a series of crashes.

Fenris turned on his heel to go and investigate, and found a back room in upheaval. It had been the store room, and from the look of things, their apostates had tried to hide in a couple of barrels with various contents, which were now strewn across the floor, in addition to smashed crockery, and it was swimming in spilled milk and ale. There was a struggle going on between a haggard man in faded clothes, who wielded a broom inexpertly, and a helmetless Templar dodging his desperate swings, which was resolved the moment he entered by the man's slipping on something in the mess on the floor, and landing hard on his behind. He didn't get a chance to get up again; a sword at his throat effectively prevented him from doing that.

Two other women, mother and daughter, by the look of them, and two Templars had been watching the unequal fight, the daughter struggling like a furious cat against the female Templar holding her, the older woman hanging in her captor's grasp like a wet rag. Her loose, dirty hair was streaked with blood.

Fenris' brows contracted in a frown. An apostate hunt without abominations, without even one of the hunted ones using magic to defend themselves could mean only one thing, and he didn't like that thought.

"Bring them to the kitchen. I want to have words with them."

He didn't wait to see the salutes. Instead, he stalked off to the sounds of shuffling, and a pained outcry, behind him.

An hour later, he was no wiser than before, but a lot more disquieted. The Captain didn't seem to share this feeling; he was interrogating the broom fighter, swinging his meaty hands with much gusto and grinning when each punch connected all over the man's body. So far, he had gotten his name, occupation, and the certain knowledge that the two women were indeed his wife and daughter, the straw-hatted man and his wife his brother and sister-in-law, and that they had been forced to hide here as a last retreat. And there it ended. No matter how hard the blows rained down on their captive, he remained stubbornly silent but for grunts and cries of pain.

Fenris had to commend him on that.

But he knew it wouldn't last. Because soon, one of the women would end up in his place instead. And if she didn't spill, he was certain to when that happened.

He glanced over at them. The daughter was quite the pretty thing, which made her the likely next victim. His stomach tied itself in knots when he thought of the torture method that might be chosen for such an attractive girl. It was not something he wished on even his worst enemy.

Sure enough, after another blow that made something in their captive's chest area crack, and the man nearly faint into the armored arms holding him upright, the Captain straightened up and spat out disgustedly. Fenris sensed what he was about to say, and spoke up before he could do so, hoping that he didn't sound as sickened as he felt.

"There is obviously no apostate, then. We must have been misled."

"Nonsense." The Captain half-turned around, like an irate bear. "There's an apostate here somewhere. I'll just have to tickle it out of them, where. The cowardly rat's hiding, letting his people take it all for him. Well, we'll just see about that..." He made as if to turn back to his subordinate Templars, but Fenris arrested him in mid-movement. "If there really is an apostate, he is probably long gone into the forest. We should continue our search there."

"Might be. But there's no sense in traipsing through the woods if we're not sure, is there? - Bring the girl over." That last bit was directed at the man holding her, who complied immediately. She began to struggle with renewed vigor, peppering the Templars with insults, and trying to stomp down on her captor's steel-encased toes. A resounding slap from the Captain shut her up quite effectively, and she sagged.

Fenris opened his mouth, stepping forward, and at that moment, several things happened at once.

The hearth made a sudden noise. The Templar archer sitting on it with her bow across her knees jumped up as if stung. The whole party whirled, as one, at the same moment as the four captives went uniformly white.

Then the archer, as if to cover her slip, strode the single step towards the little hearth door, bent down, ripped it open and reached inside. There was a squeal and some scuffling, and out came, being dragged by the scruff of his neck, a sooty, child-sized apparition. It was kicking and screaming in a high boy's voice. Something sparked, and the archer let go of the boy with a cry of both surprise and pain, only to latch onto him again a second later. His struggles got weaker, the screams subsiding to whimpers, drained of his magic by the Templar's Silence spell.

"Our apostate." The Captain grinned at Fenris triumphantly, but Fenris could only stare, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. Their apostate, a mere child. Their fugitives, a family trying desperately to keep their son and brother safe.

"_I'm sorry it came to this, Leto..."_ Varania's voice echoed through his head, her green eyes, the mirror image to his own, looking at him pleadingly, wanting him to understand- but he could understand only one thing, then or now. _I did the only thing I could to keep you safe. _

"_You wanted this. You competed for it."_

_I chose this... _

He didn't know how he knew, but he knew, suddenly, and with crystal clarity he understood what had driven these people to their flight, tasted the ashen tang of desperation over watching his loved ones be treated like so much meat...

His mouth was dry. He opened it to speak, and his voice came out hoarse and halting.

"Take him to the Circle.", he said, at the same time as the Captain ordered, "Kill him." Both men fell silent, looking at each other, man and elf fighting a battle of will by no more than a look. The Templars shifted uneasily. They could all feel the tension crackle between their leaders like lightning, and no one was quite sure of the outcome. Fenris himself wasn't. Not even if this was wise- he was compromising himself in no small way, after all.

But he couldn't, he just _couldn't_...

_Green eyes like his own, watching in mute desperation as Danarius declares him victorious._

He shook off the memory, and the feeling it brought with it, like his world was slowly tilting. Not the time to lose himself- focus. He could deal with this memory later, but only if he didn't allow it to gain power over him now.

"Isn't this just what the Circle is for? To raise and educate young mages so that their magic will not be a danger? I say, take him." Thankfully, his voice was stronger now, betraying little of the turmoil going on beneath the surface.

_Green eyes full of sorrow as he says good bye for the last time, head held proudly high, shoulders squared. His life for their freedom. They will thank him later. _

_Focus. Focus..._

"Orders are to kill every apostate. We can't risk it." The Captain sounded even gruffer than usual. Fenris could hear himself in that tone, clothing his own fear in the voice of reason. He felt disgusted.

"You would murder a child?" It was so hard to think straight. The family's eyes were on him. He was fighting for _Mother... Sister..._

Without him, their sacrifice would be _meaningless, the choice rejected, thrown back in his face..._

"Yes."

He was too slow. The archer's knife cut the boy's throat cleanly, he collapsed to the floor, a small sooty shape twitching in a spreading puddle of blood. Fenris could only stare stupidly.

_No... _

Eyes were boring into him, desperate, full of sorrow. His own lifted from the gory spectacle on the floor and met them, briefly.

"Kill them. Torch the house. It'll be their pyre."

Templar swords were drawn, and Fenris watched helplessly transfixed as a family's lives were taken.

"_Leto..."_

* * *

"Enchanter Merrill?"

She looked up from her book, a history detailing the development of elemental magic spells over the centuries and the different ways they had been, and were, taught in the human kingdoms. Really quite fascinating reading, she'd found. Evan was, of course, disagreeing; in fact, he was having a nap with his feet on one chair while leaning back in another at the moment. _And_ snoring softly. If the librarian caught him like this...

The face she found hovering awkwardly over her had thin reddish hair, kept in a ridiculous tonsure cut, and a wispy dark beard not quite managing to cover the weak chin. In between those features sat a pair of watery eyes and a nose like a beak, and the embarrassed little smile didn't make things better at all.

"Oh. Emile. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. I was preoccupied." She indicated the page of her book she was currently poring over, and Emile de Launcet's smile grew knowing. He nodded wisely.

"No, it's me who should be apologizing, I did disturb you. It's just... the book you've been interested in, I've finished reading it now. If you'd like to have it...?"

"The book... oh, yes, of course. Thank you so much for remembering!" She took the proffered volume, very slim and not showing many signs of having been read often. Books about elvhen magic seldom did- even the elves in the Circle did not show much interest about the heritage of Arlathan, to Merrill's sorrow. She briefly wondered why a human would, but dismissed the thought. Emile de Launcet was free from second thoughts, if anyone was; just an overgrown boy he, clumsy of body and with an awkward way of address that made her cringe in sympathy. He was the type one lived side by side with for years and never really noticed; she wouldn't have, certainly, if he hadn't happened to be reading a book she wanted.

In the rather embarrassed conversation ensuing this discovery she had found out that he knew Hawke.

She felt rather guilty about the fact that she probably wouldn't have continued the acquaintance without that detail. And what a detail. It turned out Emile had run away from the Gallows once to "see something of the world" as he put it. Meredith had then sicced Hawke on him and the other two mages who had fled with him- why she would do such a thing, Merrill couldn't fathom, what with Hawke being a mage herself- and when the Champion had offered to cover for Emile's flight, he had refused, saying he didn't know how to live outside the Circle and that he'd rather go back. Merrill had been flabbergasted. To taste of freedom, and then return to the cage... an almost-smothered longing had fluttered in her breast then, to be squashed as it always was.

They had met again in the library and talked over their books, with Merrill's guards hovering over them, listening to every word. They chose them carefully, accordingly, except when it was Evan on duty, who often joined in with some mocking banter. Emile now seemed to regard her as a sort of mentor, and she was sure she had no idea of how and when that had happened. Or why.

It was slightly flattering, however...

And now Emile was standing there beside her, scratching his neck. It couldn't be any more obvious that he wanted to ask her something. As much as she just wanted to delve into the book, she forced herself to wait a little longer. It wouldn't walk away.

"Yes?", she asked, smiling lightly. The young man blushed a shade of red that clashed quite horribly with his carrot-colored hair. "I just... well, I wanted to say, I never knew how fascinating the history of the elves is! Of course, anyone knows about the fall of the Dales, but there's so much more... erm, actually, the fall of the Dales is horrible, but, um, you know what I mean, and what I wanted to say is, uh... could you teach me? About elves? From an elven perspective? If that's not too much to ask, I mean... is it?"

Merrill had been surreptitiously biting the inside of her cheek for half the speech. Now it took her a moment to regain control of her facial features before she trusted herself to reply. "Of course I'll teach you. I would love to, actually. A human showing so much interest in my people's history is something that hasn't happened to me before, I won't pass up this opportunity to bore you with all the details I ever learned from our Keeper."

Emile brightened at that, and when she motioned for him to sit opposite to her, he didn't have to be asked twice. And Merrill joyfully launched into her favorite topic. For some odd reason, she found herself opening up to Emile quite easily every time they talked. It felt as natural as wanting to cuddle a kitten. He was the only one in the entire tower, she was sure, with whom she could be herself. Even her self-appointed Templar protector couldn't give her that.

It was this selfsame Templar protector who interrupted their little impromptu lesson by waking up from his nap, just as Merrill was waxing poetic about the fabled beauty of the old elvhen homeland. Yawning, he stretched as well as he could in all his armor and grinned blearily at the two somewhat guilty faces in front of him."Oi, Emile. Why're you two looking like I caught you conspiring to overthrow the Viscount, eh? I do hope what you've been talking about is all nice and legal and Chantry-approved, otherwise I'd have to lop your heads off, and I'd hate that. Always such a mess." His handsome face contorted into a grimace. Merrill gave a little chuckle, although he had sounded half-sincere when he said that part about lopping off heads. But surely he'd have to have been joking.

"All nice and legal, I've just been giving Emile lessons in elven history, since you won't listen to me...", she attempted a little jibe, to the effect that Evan let his head drop back, groaning. "As long as you leave me in peace with that stuffy... stuff, by all means, lecture him until his ears drop off. Not now, though... dunno about you, but I'm hungry. Let's head off to dinner, eh?"

Merrill wasn't, but she nodded all the same. Emile excused himself and left so fast she couldn't help wondering if she'd done something to embarrass him. Nothing came to mind, though, and she shrugged it off, trailing after her bodyguard after finding a safe place for the precious book in one of the pockets of her Enchanter's robes. She was so looking forward to devouring it in the privacy of her chamber, she could scarcely wait.

Her thoughts were on that pleasure to come all the way through dinner, and it took Evan's laughing admonition to make her stop picking her chicken into particles. Afterward, he escorted her to her room, as always, and stood in the door to prevent her from closing it until she relented and gave him the good night kiss that had become somewhat of a ritual of late. She still vividly remembered the first time she had kissed him: It had been one of those days...

_High amid the shelves of the Circle's library has become her favorite refuge when something has upset her; that is, most every days. Today it is yet another failure to use healing magic, and the scorn of those who wield it as lightly as a scribe wields his feather. It would not be so bad if Merrill did not know she is being set up to it, but as it is she can feel the expectant tension vibrating in the air around her whenever she is asked to perform a spell, feel even the knowing smiles behind her back, feel them widen when- as expected- the magic dies in her hands, shying away from the touch of someone as corrupted as her. And she sees through the thin smiles, the assurances that next time, it surely will work. It has taken her a long time, but now she sees the glee thinly veiled by the commiserations and the stories of spells eluding the teller until they'd almost given up, only to suddenly work for them as if nothing had happened. She used to be naïve, but she's not anymore. _

_So today she is trying to distract herself from brooding over the failed lesson by poking among the dust-covered tomes on the uppermost shelf, almost hidden in shadow. This never fails to take her mind off anything but the secrets hidden between faded and frayed covers, the wealth of knowledge to be discovered. She is lovingly brushing the dust of years from a cracked leather-bound biography of one long-dead and forgotten scholar, humming under her breath, and ignoring the low voices talking behind other shelves, snippets of sound that make little sense to her. Her ever-present shadow in Templar armor- one of them- is somewhere where he is not directly intruding on her thoughts, and that is enough for her. Every unobserved minute has become a blessing to be cherished, as has every breath of fresh air, every little gust of wind entering through an open window, every sight of anything beyond the Circle walls. There are windows from which to observe the sea, and the gulls flying free. There are books with beautiful illustrations of plants and animals in them. And there is her iron tree outside her own window. To be so content with so little- it is the only way to survive, here, in her threefold prison of stone, laws, and people. _

_Although sometimes she wonders why she even bothers. _

_Shaking her head, she tells herself no, she will not go there. Not now, not ever again. She has a whole life of learning ahead of her, more than she could ever have learned among the Dalish, and that is something to be grateful for. _

_Determined, she opens the book, turning the pages reverently. The voices from behind the other shelves are coming closer now, entering her aisle; at the same time, the rattle of someone walking in heavy plate armor is coming from the other direction, but she is deaf to it as she dives into the small, cramped yet meticulous writing. Her eyes settle on the first paragraph, and the ladder beneath her rocks suddenly. She loses her hold on the book first, the precious tome tumbling to the ground; her balance second as the ladder slides sideways, hits her hand reaching out trying to steady herself and catch her fall, and crashes into an armored form hard enough to take her breath away. The ladder hits the floor an instant later with a heavy thump, and silence settles along with the dust. _

_But not for long. _

"_Are you mad?!", her rescuer flares, and now she recognizes the tall form and the ever-in-need-of-a-cut black hair. She cannot see who it is he is flaring at, he is holding her so tightly she cannot turn, and her hand is smarting awfully from its brief but painful contact with the bookcase. _

"_I did not see the ladder there, ser. I'm so very sorry, Enchanter Merrill, are you hurt?" The voice is familiar as well. After every one of her failures, it has been the first to rise in triumphant commiseration. Merrill does not know what she has done to the elf woman, but plainly she has done something to offend Enchanter Kallis. Not for one second does she believe that this was an accident, and it makes a weight settle uncomfortably in her stomach. _

_If she had learned one thing, however, it is this: Never show that it hurts. _

_She disentangles herself from Evan's hold with some difficulty- he is so much stronger than her, and holds her in an iron grip- and turns to face the blond elvhen woman with the untattooed face. "I am alright, thank you for asking.", nodding politely, "Just a fright. And I'm afraid the book might have taken some harm.", she adds, looking around for the volume in question, and finding it open and lying face down on the carpet, she darts over to pick it up, dust it off, and inspect the brittle pages for any damage done in the falling. And Kallis seems to take this as the hint it is, and another declaration of her sorrow over being the cause of such an accident later, she stalks away with her companion in tow. _

_Merrill breathes a silent sigh of relief, and Evan's hand finds her shoulder and squeezes, once, reassuring. _

"_Bitch." His tone is dark, angry, but Merrill only smiles sadly. "I'm used to it."_

"_Well, you shouldn't be. I'm going to have words with her, you can be sure of that. Can't have her hurting my little bird." A thumb strokes along her cheek softly. At first, these touches used to startle her, him petting her hair, tweaking her ear, patting her shoulder, caressing her neck. She has gotten used to that, as well; she is unsure yet if it is welcome. _

_She draws back, softening the motion with a smile. "Please don't. I don't want to make the situation any more awkward than it has to be." Evan opens his mouth to protest, but she is quicker. "Please." _

_He gets this look in his eyes, the one that says that she doesn't know what she is doing, but then shrugs and nods. "If you change your mind, let me know. But, in the meantime... do you think your heroic rescuer deserves a kiss? Just a little one, to reward him for his swift action in saving you?" His wink is so boyishly mischievous that she can't help but giggle, raising herself up on tiptoes to place a quick peck on his cheek. _

"_thank you, my knight in shining armor.", she quips softly. _

_She is about to sink down again and withdraw, but this time Evan proves the faster. Suddenly his hand is on her neck, the other one beneath her chin, tilting up her face with hard gauntleted fingers, and his lips are on hers, and not in a quick peck. By the time he lets her go, she is flushed and breathless and light-headed, and strangely afraid. There's a peculiar light in Evan's eyes, but then the rattle of armor is heard behind the wall of books, and it is gone as soon as it appeared, with Evan turning to berate his fellow Templar for letting her out of his sights for even a moment. Merrill shrinks back, clutching her book. A border has been crossed today, she feels; but a border to where, remains to be seen. _

A quick peck on his cheek, Evan's hand tangling into her hair- now grown so long it brushed her shoulder blades- his lips pressing to hers, taking more than was offered, to pull away when she thought she can't breathe any more, with a last boyish smirk and a whisper of "Good Night, little bird.". It was a game they played, and Merrill thought she knew the rules.

It was not until Evan stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him, than she realized that they had changed.

His hand reached for her once more, cupping her cheek against his palm. Without his gauntlets, his fingers were warm and calloused and firm. The hazel eyes regarded her with warmth- mostly warmth. There was also something else, something she had seen in Fenris' eyes right before she mounted him, something hot and old...

"Little bird.", he murmured softly, his voice thick with this thing that shone in his eyes. "Have I ever told you how pretty you are?"

"Only a hundred times." Laughing, she slipped away from him, playing it as a joke, his usual exuberant flattery that sounded pleasing and meant very little. "It's not true, but thank you all the same." But Evan was having none of it. His hand captured her arm, and this time, his grip was not entirely gentle.

"It's true, though. You're pretty- beautiful even- it's such a shame you're so alone." The tone of his voice was still calm and soft, but his fingers gave the lie to it, digging into the meat of her arm hard enough to hurt. The fluttering in Merrill's belly grew stronger, and it wasn't an entirely pleasant fluttering.

"I'm never alone."

"You know what I mean." Impatience was seeping into his tones. The fluttering grew more frantic, although Merrill tried to tell herself that she was being silly, he wouldn't hurt her. Not for real, anyway. He just had less patience than was good for him, being a young man and all.

"You have no friends, and your lover has cast you off. Don't shake your head now, you know it's true. He used you to buy his way back into Cullen's good graces, and now that he doesn't need you anymore, he cast you off. Or does he still love you? What does he do when you're alone in this room, hm? What _does_ he do?" When she couldn't answer, he plowed on, his voice growing lower but more eager by the second. "I could give you what he doesn't. What you deserve to be given. You know you want me to, your knight in shining armor- eh?" The grin was back, suddenly, and he winked at her in this way he had, mischievous and boyish, she couldn't help smile although his fingers still held her too tightly. "And I'm alone, too. We could comfort each other. You want that, right? My lovely little bird..." His hand tangled once again into her hair, the other going around her waist, and Merrill stepped into him at his insistent tug. Yes, she thought, she wanted that, what she had with Fenris for only one night. Or if she could not have it, at least she could give something back to her protector, her only true friend, her knight who did so much for her. It was the only thing she had to give, after all, so wasn't it, in a way, her duty? Her debt?

She raised her head to meet Evan's mouth with hers, ignoring the tightness in her belly, where the butterflies had settled down to form a knot, ignored the feeling of his hands on her being not quite right, too large, too hard, too knowing. Her robe went first, then his armor, while she waited with her blanket slung around her, shivering in the chill of the stone room (_only_ the chill of the room, she told herself sternly), and when he came to her his hand ripped the blanket away so hard she hurt her fingers trying to hold onto it. He hurt her, too, when he entered her, and it wasn't the sweet pain that, together with the smell of hay, and lyrium, and _him, _and the feeling of slender calloused fingers and a scratchy cloak on her bare skin,formed one of her fondest and most painful memories. It shamed her. This was wrong, this pain, he was so good to her, she should have been ready for him, but somehow she wasn't. And when she lay cradled in his arms after, him caressing her hair and whispering soft words, she wanted only to have him gone before she shamed herself more by dissolving into tears where he could see.

Finally, he rose and dressed and left, and Merrill curled up on her bed and wept.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Merrill saw the sunlight streaming in through her window, painting the shadow of a tree on the opposite wall, and wondered why she felt so empty.

Only for a moment, though. The second she moved, and felt the soreness between her thighs, it all came flooding back.

_Stop being so silly, _she told herself while biting her lip to will the tears away, _you're a grown woman, you had sex with a man, there's nothing to cry about. _

Isabela would tell her the same thing, if she were here. Suddenly, she missed the pirate so much it hurt, her swagger, her laughter, her dirty jokes. If Isabela were here, she would buy her a drink and laugh about this episode- after getting every little last detail of the last night out of her, to be sure.

The thought made her chuckle, and after that, she felt ready to get up and face the day. Nothing to feel sorry about.

But when she had washed and dressed, and opened her door to step outside, she found no Templar guarding her room. Instead, leaning against the wall opposite, looking haggard and worn, dirty from travel, his silver hair falling long and unwashed into his eyes, was...

"Fenris?" Her voice nearly failed her on that word. His head rose, burning eyes fixing her with a look. Green fire surrounding black pupils blown wide, dark holes ready to swallow her if she wasn't careful. If she wasn't burnt to a husk first.

_Drunk, _she decided, _he's either drunk or sick, _his look was the look of one fevered, hurting, haunted, and it scared her more than she liked to admit to herself. She gathered her courage, and what little of her magic her Templar guardians allowed her to keep, her hand gripping the skirt of her robe in an unconscious gesture, and prepared to ask what he was doing here, but he cut her off before she could get more than a syllable out.

"Did you ever wonder,", he began, and his voice was the husky rasp of a person who has been screaming his throat raw, "did you ever wonder why no new mages ever joined the Circle? Did you?" And his eyes searched her face, so intently she could feel the heat of those moss-green coals. She had no answer for him, but it did not matter; he continued as if he had never been expecting an answer in the first place, speaking fast and low as if afraid that anyone might hear and interrupt them before he had delivered his message, pushing off the wall to stagger a step closer to her.

"Because they kill them, that is why. Men, women, children, the mages, their families, everyone. No questions asked. No one's spared. And I'm a part of it. It's revenge, this is. My revenge, for what was done to me, for what the magisters did to me. It's what I wished for." He was so close now she could smell him, sweat, fresh and stale both, old blood, old smoke, leather and horse and metal and dirty, unwashed body. But no wine on his breath, or ale, or any other kind of alcohol.

She backed away, hit the hard wood of the door with her shoulder blades, and stayed there, trapped. Her voice had died in her throat. She had never seen Fenris like this, so raw and unguarded, and so poisonous.

"It's what I wanted, but I don't anymore. And that's your fault, witch, you with your stories... with your blighted big eyes, always seeing the good in people... why did you have to make me see, why? I never wanted to see the girl, just the mage, I wanted to hate you but you wouldn't let me... why?" Now he was directly in front of her, so close his breastplate brushed against the fabric of her robe. And even closer yet. Walls, doors, armor, skin, everything that had ever hidden him against the world was gone, baring him for all to see. Merrill was staring into his eyes in astonishment, her fear melting away under the onslaught of his unfiltered pain and bitterness. Whatever had happened to make him like this, she could not begin to guess. Something more horrible than anything he had ever seen with Hawke, or earlier still, when he was a slave to Danarius. Something that had torn the layers of his defenses clean away.

But she had no answer for him.

So she said the only thing she could.

"I don't know."

Suddenly, they were back, those walls he wrapped himself in. She could see the change happening, how his body stiffened and straightened, how his look grew guarded, how he put the leash on the feelings that had been pouring out of him just a moment before. It made her hurt for him, that he ever had to learn to armor himself in this way.

"Of course not."

He pushed back and away from her, starting to withdraw. Merrill was too scared to hold out her hand and stop him. Too afraid of tearing down the walls again with a gesture, and receiving the brunt of his unbridled emotions once more.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to- intrude on you like this." His tone, the old, cold, careful monotone...

He turned and went, and Merrill stayed until her Templar guard found her, still leaning against her own door and deep in thought.


End file.
